


Seduced By The Light

by Dash (Cydney)



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: F/M, Light Erotica, Older AU, Seventh Sister survived Malachor, So you know those stories where SS seduces Ezra, and exposes her to something new, and turns him to the Dark Side?, implied suicide, well he seduces her instead, you're curious and it's okay to admit it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-15 06:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9223496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cydney/pseuds/Dash
Summary: There was no Inquisitor so dangerous and dogged than the Seventh Sister. She survived Maul. She outlived Thrawn. And after years of hunting, she's finally caught up with her long-time opponent, Ezra Bridger. She meant to recruit him. To make him her apprentice. She couldn't have been more wrong...





	1. Body Heat

_It goes without saying that I do not profit from this work, nor do I own the characters used within (something which I'm sure we're all grateful for.)_

_**Seduced By The Light** _

_**1.Body Heat**_

* * *

"If I didn't know better," she mused, her voice filtered through her helmet. "I'd say this was a poor attempt at Jedi fiction."

The Seventh Sister allowed herself to rest against the cavern wall, sliding down the slippery surface until she leaned on her haunches. She didn't bother with her usual feline graces – they were reserved for… special occasions. Where she held the upper hand. When she enjoyed the tension in the air and the fear on her prey's face. For those times when she would emerge from the shadows like a spider, moving like quicksilver along the terrain. She was the infamous Inquisitor who had survived the brutal attack by the traitorous Maul, and she let everyone know it hadn't slowed her down.

But this was  _not_ a special occasion. No. Far from it, she thought as her lip curled in distaste. Some form of ruggedised equipment was tossed to the ground in front of her, splashing her boots with the water that trickled along the cave floor. She didn't care – her back was already steadily growing wet from it all, anyway.

"Jedi don't do fiction," Bridger grunted, inspecting a torch inside the salvaged escape pod. She heard the ignition switch click a few times. Saw him shake it about as if to jar something loose inside. Knew that it was broken before he tossed it back into the depths of the crumpled craft with annoyance. The Seventh Sister rolled her eyes and nudged the pack with the toe of her boot. Muscles in her legs groaned with annoyance. Nothing felt broken, but severely hurt. It chafed her – muscles were notoriously worse at healing than mere bones for her race.

"Well then – when Jedi are stranded on a backwards planet, with their escape pod damaged,  _and_ a member of the Elite Empirical Inquisitors, pray tell me just what they _do_   _then_." She cast a look around them as she caught a whiff of ozone and wrinkled her nose. As if the situation needed  _more_ encouragement, she heard her environmental controls **pop**  with an electronic hiss. The shield of her helmet opened rebelliously, and almost immediately the Mirialan felt the icy atmosphere prick her face.

Ezra Bridger ignored her, glancing around the damaged controls of the escape pod. The Seventh Sister had done an excellent job of destroying the console. The Inquisitor had managed to slip through the door just as the maglocks had sealed, jettisoning them from the doomed freighter in orbit. It was impressive that she had moved so quickly if the sudden ignition of her lightsaber hadn't pushed him into action. The few parry's they exchanged had been all it took to steer them off course, leaving them free to tumble about as the wayward pod was pulled towards the surface.

"They remind them how lucky they are that the Jedi aren't big on killing people," he called back, bending down to find the remains of his lightsaber on the floor. Ezra frowned and rubbed his stubbled cheek, brushing various pieces aside before salvaging the crystal and power source. At least he wouldn't need to start over from scratch. _Again_.

"You speak of luck," she laughed. Her voice was coy, almost musical, and still so very dangerous. "I wonder who of us is  _luckier_ , little Padawan? Myself for surviving Malacor? Or  _you_  for destroying my own blade?" A clawed glove brought her kyber crystal upwards, admiring the ruby red light that passed through it and warmed her pale skin.

Twin boots stamped down into the damp cave floor as Bridger hopped down from the wrecked pod, kicking up more droplets of water and leaving her glaring up at him. He gave her an annoyed, bored look and pushed a parcel into her hand, telling her only to "eat" while he bit down into a ration bar of his own.

"Afraid I'll swallow you up like a black widow if I don't?" she asked. The Seventh Sister grinned at him, golden eyes sparkling with menacing mirth as he sat down opposite her on the cave floor. There was once a time, years before when she would remark at just how pretty he was as he gazed at her in fear. She missed those days – he was too much like his teacher now. Tall and scruffy, but most of all tempered. There was no more anxiety in those features for her to relish. No more awe in his eyes as she pirouetted and deflected.

"Hoping you'll talk less if you're too busy eating," Ezra swallowed, tearing off another bite before nodding towards her and repeating himself. "Eat."

The Seventh didn't. Not just yet. There was no fluid grace in tearing off the wrapper of a ration bar and eating in front of her constant-adversary. She pushed the gifted packet aside, bringing her kyber crystal back up to gaze at the gem. She smirked as she watched him through the prism, his angled features painted a blood red with the hues of her lightsaber.

"Aren't you at all curious?" she sang, a little too sweetly. "You know the Dark side – you've drunk from its waters before, haven't you?" She had never gotten the whole story of the Sith Holocron. At least, not from him, and she had even asked over the years they had clashed together. But there was no mistaking the familiar charm of the Dark side of the Force. It was there, on _him_ , carried on the winds he walked like some scarf or banner. It was faint, but there was no mistake – the Padawan had dipped his hands in inky waters. He was not so pure as Jarrus was.

"You know that it is _power_. It is passion. It is  _fire_ incarnate." The Seventh Sister pressed her crystal against her cheek, feeling warmth seeping into her flesh and driving away the chill of the cavern they occupied. Small but familiar. Comforting. "How much easier would it be to taste it again? To let yourself carry that glowing heat in a damp little cave like this…?"

Ezra Bridger gave her a flat stare, his jaw working at the last of his ration as he rubbed the twin scars that marred his cheek.

"When you find out that your jewellery isn't enough to keep you warm, you'll find a thermos blanket in your lunch box," he said. And then he drew his legs up, his hands coming together as he bowed his head and began to meditate. The Inquisitor sniffed and looked back towards the cave entrance, where steady rain poured just outside. She hadn't expected him to jump at the chance to join her suddenly, but it was essential to keep up appearances. They had danced this little dance together for too many years now.

But she wondered, finally opening her offered ration, just when she had become 'so harmless' that he would allow himself to meditate while sharing the same space with her.

It would have been insulting if she wasn't so blasted hungry.

* * *

 

The rain outside seemed to grow heavier.

The weather was torrential and the blanket next to useless. The Sister pulled it tighter around her lithe frame, cursing everyone from Vader down for her predicament. She cursed the quartermaster for not making her ensemble more resilient to the elements. She denounced the Rebel captain she ran through on her blade, for being in orbit around such a disgusting organic pile of muck like this planet was. She damned Bridger for not being a good little Jedi and dying already…

No, she cursed him for not seeing sense in joining her. He was good. Too good, too talented for a sticky death. Not when he might yet be talked into wearing Inquisitor black and taking the place of the long-dead Fifth Brother. But for now, she cursed him for not letting anything get to him.

"Try the radio again," she snapped at him, frustrated at how stone-still he managed to stay through his meditation.

"You broke it," he murmured instead, his voice even while his eyes remained shut. "The beacon is on, and we can put it outside _after_  the weather passes."

She glared at him anew, her golden eyes narrowing as he told her exactly what she already knew. The blanket was pulled up higher around her shoulders while the frigid air attacked her legs. The Seventh Sister was wet, cold and angry, and debating whether she would reach out with the Force and grab the same blanket from around Bridger's own shoulders.

Or if she should try and strangle him with it first.

Neither was an option. She refused to ask for help, and relieving him of the protection was all but confessing her weakness. And weak she was – even rested, fed and healthy, her strength with the Force didn't compete with his anymore. The boy had become a man over time – his own talents surging. When they met, she could tease and test him, moving around him in swift circles. Now her connection to the Dark side was spent solely matching his lightsaber parries, blow for blow.

She couldn't strangle him. She refused to ask him for  _help_. All that was left was to ignore the encroaching cold and glare at him again.

"You'll get lines if you keep staring like that," Bridger murmured. His eyes were still closed, a serene look on his features.

"I'll still be the most beautiful creature you see before you die," she remarked, privately seething as the Jedi  _smirked_.

"You tell yourself that."

* * *

 

Her teeth almost chattered. The Inquisitor sat huddled in the remains of the escape pod, both thermal blankets around her frame as the wind still managed to howl through the cave and the open hatch. The Jedi sat opposite, bathed in the sickly red glow of the emergency lights. He could have been meditating again if she hadn't been staring. Scrutinizing him. Bridger seemed too conscious, too aware to be in a trance. Perhaps he was feeling the cold also, and part of her hoped he did. Hoped that his skin burned from the chill while she held both blankets against her form.

Come over here, she thought. Come and bow,  _beg_  for the aid you need to survive. Swear yourself to the Dark Side. Join  _me_  and put an end to this ridiculous dual we have fought for years.

If the Jedi could read her mind, he didn't react. If he could read her mind, chances were he simply  _didn't_. They were foolishly noble like that, she remembered. Nobel and stubborn in the face of adversity. Irritatingly stoic.

"How are you not freezing to death?" the Inquisitor hissed, her teeth chattering minutely at the end.

"Maybe I am," he shrugged, and she hated him for sounding so blasted blasé about it all.

"Teach me. Teach me whatever Force ability you're using." She didn't pretend to be coy anymore. The façade of the seductively dangerous Seventh Sister had slipped, replaced by an angry Mirialan who had run out of patience and comfort.

"Can't do it – it doesn't work for the  _Dark Side_ , you know." He could be telling the truth. He could be lying through his teeth. It was infuriatingly impossible to tell.

"Then I'll just  _take_  your secret," she hissed. Her legs sprung, launching her across the narrow space and pinning him. Her muscles  _ached_  – cold and stiff and still sore from the crash, but she didn't care. She needed to beat him, capture him,  _corrupt him_. All that mattered was dominating Bridger until he gave her his power or he  _hurt_.

She didn't care which one it was anymore.

Clawed hands wound their way through messy hair, and she pulled, satisfied when he began to fight back. Palms grabbed her shoulders to push her away, and she tightened her grip, scratching his scalp and growling at him. The Seventh felt blood moving through her body again. Felt her nemesis writhe and shove against her. Felt the Force energise her for the first time since she crawled out of the escape pod hatch and coughed up smoke.

"Hey –  **hey!** " She stopped as he shouted in her face, her lips pulling back into a smirk. 'That's it,' she thought. Get mad. Get  _angry_. Fight me. Give me an excuse to hurt you. Taste the power of the Dark Side once more…

"You're turning  _blue_."

She leaned back, confusion firing across her mind as he stared at her. Blue?  _Blue_? She wasn't  _blue_. She was the proud skin tones of her people. Not some gaudy complexion like that overrated Twi'lek race. But her thoughts were derailed a second time as she caught his hand _touching her_. Touching her  _face_. She felt a flush of anger at the sheer  _nerve_  of the move. And then, a moment later, awareness as she couldn't  _feel_  the fingertip prodding her skin. Just the same chilly numbness.

"You'll be lucky if your lips don't fall off."

She wanted to slap him.

And then Bridger  _kissed her_. She  _needed_  to slap him. To strike the impetuous Jedi for daring to be so familiar. So  _intimate_. He had his chances – oh, more than once she had saucily winked at him. Cooed about his pretty features. Teasingly whispered what she could show him – pleasure and pain that he couldn't begin to imagine. Not even the Mandalorian girl he worked with, for all their 'wild reputations,' would be able to compete with what she knew. And he chose now…?

Her fingers betrayed her. Her clawed gloves tightened their grip on his hair the moment she tasted the faintest trickle of warmth from him. _This_ was it, she thought, clinging to whatever reasoning she could find in kissing her enemy. This was his secret. This kept him alive while she froze to death. And she'd take it from him like she promised – draw it all up and make it hers. The Seventh Sister tilted her head and pulled him closer, hungrily tasting his lips as a mantra began in her head.

_Bite him. Drink him. Corrupt him. Break him. Make him beg. Make him **moan**._

She didn't need reasoning – she was cold, and he was warm, and the moist tingles that spread across her lips told her she wasn't in danger of losing her mouth to frostbite anytime soon. Then there came the shocks. The little electric jolts across her sensitive flesh that were raw and new, spreading slowly throughout her nerves. Like she was submerging herself in the Force, warming her up. Feeding her. Resting her. The Inquisitor pulled at Bridger's hair and was rewarded as his tongue slid across her lip, sending new pulses through her.

 _Bite him_ , she thought.  _Corrupt him. Make him a servant of the Empire_. Her hands dropped to his shoulders, and she _clung_  to him, the legs that pinned him moved instead to wrap tightly around him. It was so  _easy_ , she thought, to roll her hips slowly against him. To remind him that she was a woman and he was a man. To let him know that the Dark Side didn't give a  _kriff_ about the insipid rule the Jedi had about keeping no relations. The heels of her boots dug into the muscles of his back, and she purred as she felt him against her – a hard arousal that reacted from her touch and her taste.

'I knew you found me beautiful,' she thought with a smirk, her hips rolling steadily against him. She waited for the cracks to appear – the flushed skin. The gaping breath. The glassy eyes that would be filled with torment until he could take no more and  _begged_  for release. The Inquisitor yanked her broken helmet off and pushed her hand through her short, cropped hair. 'Let him see just once,' she thought, relishing in the power she had over him…

And still, Bridger kissed her, tracing her lips and brushing her tongue with his own. She felt wide hands cross over her back and she arched. Worn fingertips pushed through the thick, short bob of her hair, sending currents through her body. The Seventh Sister dug her heels in tighter, idly wondering just how much more desperate the Jedi would become if she were more undressed. If her soft breasts were bare in the freezing cold. If her naked toes could curl into the muscles of his back…

' _Bite him_ ,' her mantra repeated. ' _Devour him. Conquer him.'_ Her hands moved to his belt and pulled at it, fumbling blindly with it while she tasted his face. Bristly hair. Scars. Salt. Stardust. Honour. Bravery. The Mirialan's tongue flicked out to trace one of the twin scars the Grand Inquisitor had gifted him with while she felt his hands on her own. His belt unfastened, and she sighed when she felt him move, his palms roaming across her backside.

' _Not enough_ ,' she thought, interrupting the chorus in her mind. She had been sitting on wet rocks for too long. She was sore and numb. She needed his _fire_ already. To take the gift he was seemingly giving her. She made short work of her own belt and hooked her thumbs behind it, her legs tensing as she peeled the tight material down her thighs and exposed her pale flesh to the harsh temperature. Almost immediately she felt him soothing her, those full hands caressing her rear in a way that was so raw and new and exciting and intimate. He squeezed her muscles. Stroked her skin. She felt her body tense and relax and sing and purr under his touch.

' _Corrupt him!_ ' her mind whispered, more urgently than before. ' _Take him! Make him **mine!**_ '

The Seventh Sister reached inside his clothes and curled her fingers around his hard flesh, watching him tense and hiss with a deep satisfaction. She didn't play with him – she just needed him, immediately, guiding him towards the slick folds of her entrance and sinking down on top of him.

The cries in her mind were shattered as she engulfed his arousal, feeling him resting deep inside her core. For a long moment, she didn't know  _anything_. No training has prepared her for this – not for sex, no, but for how quickly her plans had evaporated. All at once she felt alive and in shock. ' _It's not meant to be like this_ ,' she thought drunkenly, her body growing accustomed to the hot flesh inside her. It was meant to be satisfying, but that's all. Some pleasurable heat coupled with watching her Jedi adversary crumple against her chest.

Instead, everything was alight. The pod they hid in was awash with colour. Emergency lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting a prominent nose and honest eyes. His hands roamed along her bare backside. Fingers swept across her neck, and she shivered. Electric shocks slipped down her spine as he touched her. Her hair had only ever been hugged by her helmet, and now every tender touch he gave her was enough to make her mewl. Ezra Bridger _moved_ inside her; his thick length was rocking in and out of her sensitive core. The Seventh Sister _moan_ ed with every push, and she knew she shouldn't. But it didn't stop her from grabbing his shoulders and neck and hips. He withdrew and she buried her head into his neck. He thrust, and she arched back. Every breath she took was for him to do _more_ \- to touch her and hold her close to him. Every taste of his skin was a crime. She bucked her hips and drew him deeper into her slick core, betraying her Empire for all it's worth. Every short strand of her hair that he touched was treason because she just wanted everything he was offering her.

It's not at all going to plan, but she couldn't care less – all that mattered was the crescendo building inside and the bolts of blissful electricity coursing through her.

She'd intended to break him. To hurt him. To make him _hers_ and if that didn't work, to finally _kill him_.

Bridger –  _Ezra_ – rocked against her hips in such a way that she tensed and grabbed him. Everything was awash with light. Stars burst behind her eyes. Air tasted sweeter. The winds outside were musical. Everything around and between them hummed with the Force as he pushed deeper into her body and shook. The Seventh Sister grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him as every nerve in her body exploded.

She climaxed atop him, her limbs growing tense and hot. But she couldn't drown out the little voice within her that suddenly wished things were different, now. That maybe _she_  could be  _his_ , and they could just enjoy their afterglow and just... be.

She remembered, long ago, that it was said that the Light side of the Force could seduce, also. That it could tempt users away with soft promises. Impossible, she deflected at the time. The Light had nothing on the Dark.

The Mirialan's body trembled as the Jedi froze. Flushed, handsome features gazed at her as she _felt it_. That tell-tale throb and shake and  _splash_ as he came apart inside her, filling her body with his orgasm.

A clawed thumb stroked his damp face, admiring the bristled jaw and the scars below his cheekbones. He was her constant adversary and her companion. Time and again, across dozens of stars and worlds, they had met and clashed, all while goading one another.

She had known him for years, now. Had watched as he became a man before her. Had looked forward to winking flirtingly and reminding him that her offer still stood. And now, through it all, she could think about nothing but the soft sensation of Ezra Bridger's lips on her own.

The Inquisitor cursed her younger self for being so naïve to think that the Light side of the Force had nothing - and no one - who could seduce her...

* * *

 

She was in her quarters on the first Star Destroyer that had entered the system, inspecting the site for further rebel incursions. She was quick to brush them aside. The rebels were dead. The next target was set.

She had left Bridger asleep in the pod, certain that the sooner they had left the system, the sooner he would be rescued by his fleet of sympathisers. She still wasn't sure _why_ she'd spun her tale, efficiently ensuring his survival. She was still an Inquisitor of the Empire. He was a Jedi of the Rebellion.

He was the enemy.

"Seventh Sister to quartermaster," she snapped into her intercom. "When will my new lightsaber be ready?" There was static that sounded like someone sighing, and her impatience rose.

"It would be accelerated if we were able to use your kyber crystal, ma'am," the voice on the other end replied. She narrowed her eyes at the discreet speaker.

"Only a  _Jedi_ is so sentimental as to rebuild a weapon that failed them," she sneered. "Alert me as soon as my replacement is ready." She closed the link without another word.

The red kyber crystal was back in her bare palm, held so tightly it felt like it may just pierce the skin. There was no warmth in the jewel. No comfort. Just confusion. It was a reminder that she walked the path of the Dark side. That she was power. She was just and _right_.

The Seventh Sister hesitated before she touches her stomach, which hours before seemed to explode with shocks of warmth and acceptance and all-consuming light. She used to admire the sharp scar she bore there. The proof that she was tough enough to survive the treacherous Darth Maul filled her with pride. Now there was... nothing. She wanted to touch her lips which still seem to tingle, long after she's had healing bacta applied to them. Her gut churned with stress and emptiness, and she knew it has nothing to do with hunger.

The ruby red crystal gazed up from her palm, a reminder of so much more after her evening with Bridger. Of what she had done, sleeping with her enemy. A reminder of what might have, _or could have_ , been. If things were different. If he had just accepted her offer.

If she had strayed from her path to follow him...

She'd been a cruel, conniving, _murderous_ woman. Her career had been built over harsh words and the deaths of her teammates. She wondered if she _deserved this_ – the constant reminder of the other side. Of what might be waiting for her if she wasn't so loyal and stubborn and, perhaps, _stupid_.

She closed her palm again and tried to block out the memory of Ezra Bridger's hands caressing her neck and the taste of his lips on hers. She was the Seventh Sister. She wasn't allowed to remember how _good_  it felt to bring  **her** personal Jedi over the edge of his bliss.

Her stomach roiled and flipped and churned again as she remembered everything in vivid details.

"I don't deserve this torture," she growled. The kyber crystal lay dead in her palm, casting a ruby glow across her pale skin. It was enough to conjure the image of his damned features under those emergency lights.

' _I **don't**  deserve this,_' she thought again, much more harshly than before. But deep down she didn't believe it.

And it hurt.


	2. The Merciful

_It goes without saying that I do not profit from this work, nor do I own the characters used within (something which I'm sure we're all grateful for.)_

_**Seduced By The Light** _

_**2. The Merciful**_

* * *

The blade hummed with life. She turned and slipped away, bringing her weapon around in a steady swing. Her race was lithe, agile. Grace coupled with deadly intents. Her lightsaber started to spin. Red lights streaked in the sterile room. She pounced, as swiftly as an apex predator, bringing the weapon down in a neat arc that cut the air like a tempest. There was a **crash**  as she struck the droid's weapon and she watched it retreat. _Felt it_ backpedal under the strength of her strike. Behind her angular mask, she wet her lips. The Seventh Sister took a long step sideways, brandishing her lightsaber as she moved as only a Mirialan could.

Darth Maul watched with an unblinking stare. He could have been a statue. A corpse. Only the hum of the training saber and the flicker of the droid's holographic projectors betrayed his – it's – true nature. It's identity. She stepped forward and brought her weapon upwards. The training droid countered once more. Again, it was forced to step back, and she claimed the lost territory as her own.

Maul was dead – of that she had no doubt. There would have never been an official statement. The former apprentice of the Emperor was considered gone for too long now. But there was… a confidence in the way Vader had declared the dwindling number of Force users in the galaxy. She knew if anyone were able to sense the old half-droid perishing, it would be the Sith Lord himself.

She lashed out with her weapon. A flurry of swings descended upon the droid. Inhuman speed – the only  _close_  simulation of a Force user – deflected all but the last of her attacks. She sneered behind her visor as one of the blades stuttered and died, the dual-saber that Maul was infamous for reduced to one.

Maul had  _hurt_  her. Humiliated her. He was an old exile who had managed to pull Ezra Bridger close and convince him to help with his theft of the Holocron. As far as she was concerned, he was scum. The Emperor's apprentice once, yes, but now old and frail. Arrogant to think he would be able to lay claim to the treasure of the temple. Overbearing for attempting to take _Bridger_  as an apprentice, when she knew better. The boy was talented and pretty and so  _angry_  deep down. She would have been the perfect mentor for him.

But she had fallen before him. The old Sith disarmed her. Pinned her with his mastery of the Force. Slashed her with his saber and left her collapsed on the stone steps of the temple.

It had been weeks of recovery. Bacta baths. Medical droids. But it served to temper her. She turned her pain into anger. Anger into  _hate_. She would be prepared the next time they faced. If the rumours were true, Maul was bisected in the depths of Naboo. The Emperor's homeworld. The Seventh Sister was determined for history to repeat itself, one day.

And then he went and  _died_ somewhere, and her rage only fuelled her further. A punishing swing of her lightsabre came down across the droid baring his likeness. Backed into a corner and reduced to a single blade, the program parried blow after vengeful blow from her arm. She knew there were better ways to do this – cleaner ways. The droid had blind spots. It couldn't counter the Dark Side if she so summoned it. But _nothing_ was as satisfying as reining blows down against her prey, again and again, until finally, she drew a clean arc up and down.

The blade shattered the image of Maul, revealing a thrashed droid on the ground. The Sister's hand twitched at her side, barely resisting the urge to attack the pile of scrap and slag further. To slice it here and there. To reduce it to components. To crush it beneath her will with the Dark Side of the Force.

She flicked her lightsaber off, breathing wearily as she heard the training officer through the chamber intercom.

"Program passed once again, Ma'am," he announced. Some might have called his tone of voice 'professionally distant,' but she knew when somebody was bored. She had been running the program several times a day for weeks now, murdering Maul again and again and  _again_. Each victory had begun to grow sullied with the same officer becoming more and more impatient. It reminded her too much of the hulking Fifth Brother.

"Reset – I'm going again." She checked the hilt of her blade, running through various steps in her mind. The droid had parried too many of her moves. Brushed her aside too many times, just like the  _real_  Maul had done at the temple. The outcast that hurt her. Humiliated her. She shut her eyes and pictured it all over again, with Bridger staring at her before she was struck and cast aside.

Bridger watching her. Boyish eyes were staring in shock at the way Maul had cut her. Oh, he'd have made a _n exce_ llent apprentice. Just as he became a fine man… The Seventh Sister balled her fist. Shook her head. Told herself not to think about it.

"Reset  _now_."

It was happening  _again_ , just as it did for what felt like weeks. Ever since she was plucked from that organic pile of muck she had crashed on with  _him_. Ezra Bridger – the Lothrat Padawan who had grown into a Jedi Knight under Jarrus' teachings. The man she had duelled countless times over the years. Now, the man who had begun invading her mind more and more often. Bridger who fed her. Kept her alive. Kept her warm. Kissed her. _Held her_. Who had left her with sensations that nobody had any  _right_ to bequeath her with.

Memories of him haunted the Seventh Sister. Hands on her flesh. Lips against her face. Tremors inside her body. Shocks that left her tensing and shaking and coming apart. Gasps and hums and _moans_  that he gave to  **her**. Because of her.

She ignited her lightsaber and allowed the blades to spin with impatience. She felt  _poisoned_. As often as she closed her eyes and remembered that evening, she recalled the light that came with it. An all-encompassing warmth that spread through her. A sense of belonging. A sensation of _peace_.

But she was an Inquisitor. Peace wasn't warmth and safety. It wasn't the aftershocks of an orgasm. Peace was knowing the other person in the room feared you  _too much_ to make a move. Order was holding the galaxy in a tight grip. Peace was the long reach of the Dark Side of the Force, keeping everyone and everything in line.

And every day she could feel her control waning. Every time she recalled that evening – that  _coupling_ – she could feel her grip on the Force lessening. It took her longer to reach out. It took _more_  of her concentration and energy to harness it.

She didn't need to be reminded of Bridger moving inside her every blasted time she showered. She needed anger. Hate. She needed to kill Maul _again_ , brutally. To focus everything she had on the old Apprentice and give herself into her fury.

"Apologies Ma'am, but you've just destroyed our last droid," the officer called over the intercom. She balled her fist tighter, her face morphing into a scowl of frustration and anger. "I have maintenance working on repairing  _some_  of the more salvageable designs, but-" He was cut off as she reached out and  _pulled_ , watching with satisfaction as he was lifted up and yanked against the window of the control deck, high above the chamber.

"If you're so bored with your task, perhaps it's time you were returned to the rank and file." The Seventh Sister brought him higher, watching his struggling form flail against an enemy that wasn't there. A moment later he fell, sliding down the window to land unseen on the floor of the control room.

"You're fortunate I'm  _merciful_ ," she finished as she left the room, extinguishing her lightsaber. She moved quickly through the Star Destroyer's hallways, passing through lifts as she returned to the quarters she had commandeered and locked the door. She yanked her helmet off with urgency and fell to her knees. It felt as if she couldn't get enough air into her lungs. The Inquisitor stood with a wobble and moved to her refresher, peeling off the hood of her uniform and dousing her head under running water.

She peered into the mirror, and her reflection stared back balefully. Her flaxen skin tone was flushed with sweat and exertion. Her short hair was a sodden mess. She looked as weak as she felt, lowering herself to the floor once more. Weak. That was what she was right now. Not merciful. Whatever anger and rage that fuelled her had been enough to lift the offensive officer up, but her control of the Dark Side had faded too much. All too soon he felt heavy in her mental grip until it felt as if she was trying to lift a TIE fighter over her head.

None of the Brothers or Sisters of the Inquisitorial had been exceptionally strong in the Force. Skilled, yes, but nowhere near the level of Vader or the Grand Inquisitor. But now it felt like whatever talents she had with summoning the Force was leaving her. As if the Dark Side had seen her sin and was ashamed of her. But that couldn't be… right? It was powerful, yes, but not sentient. All-encompassing, but not all-knowing…

Didn't the Dark Side embrace those who were willing to serve themselves? It was a strength for those with anger. With _passion_. Throughout her career, she had the first one in spades. And the second…

Passion used to be the thrill of the hunt, for her. Passion was parrying the emerald blade of Bridger as she chased him and his Rebel accomplices through the galaxy. But now passion had begun to redefine itself for her. It was broad hands across her narrow waist. It was lips near her throat. Fingers pulling through her hair.

The Seventh Sister stood and splashed more water across her face, staring at the mirror until she was sure her features had returned to their usual yellowed tone. Passion was confusion. It was memories that invaded her thoughts too often. They lived on the fringe of her mind, whispering explicit details when she was trying to eat or sleep or train herself.

' _It's all just a lack of focus_ ,' she told herself. Maybe the Fifth Brother had that one redeeming value – he never overthought things. And she had begun  _torturing_ herself as of late. She needed to move forward with those memories locked away. She had to smother and ignore the intimate details of her… tryst with her enemy. Push them away, she thought. Focus on her duties. Focus on the hunt. Reclaim her strength with the Dark Side of the Force.

She peeled the tight uniform away in bits and pieces, stepping into her shower and rinsing off the sweat of the day. Hot water seeped into her muscles, and she willed herself to wash away the stubborn memories. Let them slip down the drain and be gone, already.

She lost track of her time and spent almost twenty minutes beneath the torrent instead, recalling how intensely warm she felt snuggled against Bridger's lap, even with how cold and wet the crumpled escape pod had been. Warm and welcomed and able to forget about everything except him and herself.

* * *

 

Days passed before she found herself hurtling through space on her own again, handling the control yoke of her TIE Advanced v1. Her rank and status had ensured her position on the Star Destroyer would be without interruption, but the Inquisitor felt herself growing stir crazy. There was too much free time and not enough ways to fill it for a Jedi hunter without prey. Too much time to sit in her spacious quarters and dwell on things. To agonise over what she could have done differently if she went back and did it all over again.

And too often she lost herself in loquacious daydreams. If  _only_ she could do it all again – not to soak her hands in Bridger's blood, as duty and Force demanded, but just to taste those bewitching sparks that soared through her bloodstream as he touched her.

She drove herself to madness in her quarters, telling herself to strike him down. To remove one more Rebel blight from the Emperor's galaxy. But her body and mind were treacherous things, conjuring  _what-ifs_  of their union instead. What if she had been patient enough to undress him? What if she had been allowed to trace battle scars and dustings of hair across the breadth of his chest? What if he had disrobed her and worshipped her breast as he held her?

Madness. Confusing, painful madness that tore at her thoughts and senses until she found herself igniting her lightsaber, ready to destroy something expensive. All while the presence of the Dark Side called less to her, kept at bay by her frayed emotions and her (undeniable) yearnings.

She needed a focus. A prey to hunt. A lead to follow. Something to get her in the thick of it again. Something to reconnect with the Force. Inspiration struck, and she _formally_  demanded the delivery of her TIE fighter.

The days crawled by until she found herself in the cockpit, tearing free from the Star Destroyer's bay and careening amongst the stars. It felt  _good_  to move on her own again. It was a reminder to use her rank more often. The Seventh Sister never wanted to be far from her TIE Advanced ever again. The Mirialan fired her lasers, releasing some pent-up aggression on some floating asteroids. Satisfaction filled her like a familiar set of clothes.  _This_ was where she belonged. Not resting her injuries on an unremarkable Star Destroyer. On her own, armed and with purpose. She finished setting her coordinates and the small vessel jumped to hyperspace.

She knew she had to push  _that evening_ from her mind. It had been over two weeks now, and she was skirting dangerously close to obsession. If the Seventh Sister wasn't dwelling on the physical aspect, then she found herself remembering the _emotions_  that were evoked inside her. There wasn't any other way of wording it, and it left her scrunching her nose up with distaste. The Inquisitor long believed she was above such weaknesses, but miles of broken training droids was proof of how wrong she was.

Space was vast. The Empire was grand. She was an Inquisitor. And Ezra Bridger, her target and adversary, and filled her with dizzying warmth and light and yearning and  _need_.

Simple facts.

Just as she could still recall taking him inside her body and feeling her very core thrum with wonder and excitement at something that should've been so mechanical and messy. Just as she could remember being held tight as she shook and clenched and climaxed so powerfully she wanted to scream. Felt so euphoric she could have only compared it to touching the Living Force.

More simple facts.

She was obsessing over a fling with her enemy because no matter how she remembered it, that's exactly what it was. A passionate lay with a fugitive she had chased for too long and for too many reasons. In a cold, filthy cave to stave off the chill, no less.

And that was one simple fact _too far_.

The TIE Advanced fell out of hyperspace before the glowing planet of Lothal, and she took up the yokes, cruising towards the surface. The Seventh was determined to break the spell that Bridger had cast over her. That's all it could be, she told herself. Some treacherous Jedi mind trick to turn her, a loyal agent of the Empire, into the lovesick woman she felt like now.

"Time to work, droid," she snapped, ordering the activation of the commandeered android behind her. She didn't like these newer models – the K1 series were too tall and ungainly. The exact opposite of her darling ID9 Seekers. But as far as protocol models went, it seemed as if the winds were currently blowing in the direction of 'giant hobbling hunchbacks.'

"I await your command," the K1 unit began, powering up behind her seat. "It should please Mistress Inquisitor to know that I am equipped with-"

"Who do you work for?"

She could all but hear the droid's optics wink on and off – the closest approximation to a confused blink.

"You, Mistress Inquisitor."

"Rule one – you will tell me every record you have access to in regards to the Jedi temple of Lothal. Nothing else."

Inquisitors were relentless. They were feared for good reason, and she was determined to keep that tradition alive. Because if there were any clue to be found in the temple, she would find it. She _needed_  this – to see some evidence of shadowplay. To find some reason to explain why she couldn't let this go. Why she was torturing herself with second guesses and obsessing over some sex with her enemy.

She needed a reason to hate Ezra Bridger again because it was getting harder and harder every day. Just as she felt the Dark Side of the Force less and less for it.

* * *

 

"As I tried to tell you, Mistress Inquisitor." She opened her visor long enough to pinch the bridge of her nose. The K1 droid seemed to find reasons to talk despite her strict orders, usually by sneaking in some obscure fact about the Lothal Temple at the end. It would have been impressive for its intelligence circuits if she didn't find the lumbering droid's voice so dour and bland.

"- the records are sparse since the Jedi Temple itself was all but destroyed several years ago."

"So I see."

So she did. She had hoped that something would have survived – the blasted religious site was built to mimic the craggy rocks that stuck up through the area, after all. Not to mention it lay dormant and undisturbed for years until Bridger and Jarrus had come along and awakened it. Didn't these Jedi build anything worth a damn to survive the ages?

"You yourself were present at the time of the discovery, I believe."

She ignored the droid. Yes, she was present – alongside the Fifth Brother as they were pounced upon by Jedi ghosts. She was there in time to see the fleet arrive, unable to stop the Rebels fleeing another monument to the Old Republic. And she was off after them, determined to bring their cell to face order. To strike down yet another Jedi Knight, take the pretty Padawan as her own, and put her in the lead to be promoted to Grand Inquisitor.

"You may remember, then, that standard Imperial Protocol is to destroy all identified Jedi worship sites to prevent their teachings from finding - "

"Shut. Up."

The Seventh Sister had been in such a hurry to continue hunting her prey that she left Lothal soon after they did. She didn't stay to witness the spectacular sight of a Star Destroyer performing an orbital bombing on the temple. She'd seen it all before, anyway.

Behind her visor, she scowled. The Temple was all but gone – a mess of stones and rubble, and crystal precipices where the sand had been burned to glass. Once upon a time, it would have been a magnificent thing to witness. But now she _needed_  something of the old order. Anything to shed some light on what was going on with her.

She considered just how lost she was in her own thoughts, to have forgotten what would have happened once the Temple had been identified as a Jedi site. How badly she clung to the hope that there would be some magical answer waiting for her there.

Hope. Clinging. She shook her head, aware of just how  _Jedi_  her thoughts were becoming these days.

"I know you ordered me only to relay information about the Temple, but you have an incoming message from the Imperial Capital, Mistress Inquisitor."

' _Of course_ ,' she thought bitterly. She felt too tired to deal with anyone, regardless of who they were. Her rank protected her from so much of the red tape that other officers dealt with. But a message from the Coruscant…?

"Put it through."

She turned to the TIE Advanced as the hologram materialised, and the sound of synthetic breathing made her heart pause for just a second. Darth Vader was, for as long as she remembered, her tutor and her master. Throughout her career she had nothing to fear from him, providing she never failed him. Perhaps that's why the winking image of the Sith apprentice left her shaken.

"My Lord," she greeted him, falling into a practised kneel of respect before the hologram. Even if he wasn't there, the image of his black armour and cape did nothing to diminish his virtual presence.

"What business does a member of the Inquisitorial have with an old ruin such as this?" It was as much a question as it was a demand, and the Seventh Sister resisted the urge to ball her fists up. If she began to show hints of anxiety towards her mentor she was as good as admitting her guilt.

"My Lord, an Inquisitor has to eradicate rogue Jedi. I… only hoped that here I could find clues on how to better hunt them." Sometimes the best answers were the honest ones, she thought, swallowing.

"I see." There was a long moment where all she heard was the mechanical breather of his suit, filtered through the speaker of the TIE's communication console. "You would do well to find your clues soon. I sense much conflict within you, Inquisitor."

Behind her mask she worried at lip, wondering if he could sense _that_ small action as well. Nothing would surprise her anymore when it came to Darth Vader.

"My Lord – my hunt would be aided by further training." She proceeded carefully. The Emperor's Apprentice was a master of the Dark Side. Surely, he would –

"Your training was completed the moment you passed your trials and earned your title as the Seventh Sister," he interrupted, before pointing at her with a mechanical finger.

"Do not forget, Inquisitor, that you are sensitive to the power of the Force, but you are  _not_  Sith. The Dark Side will never yield or guide you more than it already does. If you find this gift  _lacking_ , you may find yourself retired from duty, instead."

She willed her very being to stay still and guarded. Commanded her thoughts to remain under control. The Seventh could imagine just what it meant to be 'retired.' She offered a clipped bow of her helmeted-head, not trusting her words. A moment later the call ended. The hologram winked out of existence. She released a breath that she didn't know she was holding.

"I trust Mistress Inquisitor is satisfied with the expedition so far?"

She was too disturbed to reach out to the Dark Side and crush the droid, afraid that she didn't possess the strength for such a simple task.

Afraid that Vader would be able to sense her failure from across the galaxy, and seriously consider her for 'retirement.'

* * *

 


	3. To Serve The Empire

_It goes without saying that I do not profit from this work, nor do I own the characters used within (something which I'm sure we're all grateful for.)_

_**Seduced By The Light** _

_**3. To Serve The Empire** _

* * *

Ezra Bridger peered through his macrobinoculars, scanning down the street and along the footpath. He frowned as he tore off another piece of his ration bar and popped it in his mouth. The thoroughfare was as quiet now as it had been since he arrived, four days prior. He discreetly adjusted the blinders of the apartment he was squatting in, carefully running his eye over the Imperial record facility. The Padawan grunted and leaned away from the window. No matter how many times he looked it over, he just couldn't make out any good entry points. The building was too exposed to onlookers. The walls too tall and flat. And the foot traffic was so sparse that he couldn't even risk meandering down the street to get a closer look without standing out and looking suspicious.

'Another evening down the drain,' he thought sourly, hopping off the crate he was sitting on and stretching. His spine popped noisily, and Ezra looked around the makeshift 'home' he had been occupying. A gutted apartment near the top of a residential block, just waiting for some team of contractors to arrive and finish setting it up. And thanks to some creative stealing of supplies, some documents and a little Jedi mind pushing, he wasn't expecting any visitors for at least a week's time.

'Maybe I should've waited until they finished screwing in  _all_  the plumbing first,' he thought, padding into the fresher with a glass and filling it up from the shower. He tried to ignore the metallic taste of unfiltered water, running a hand across his scarred cheek and trying to recall when he'd been able to shave properly. At least his bristly shadow wasn't going to be as unruly as his Master's anytime soon, he supposed.

"Next time, I'm gonna pack my _own_ mission bag," he mumbled. Maybe Hera had faith that he would have been in, out and off-world by now. Either way, she was giving him too much credit if she expected him to last more than a couple of days on a stakeout with the modest supply he had.

At least there were some data books to read. Ezra took up his reader and picked up where he left off: a sparse, liberated record of Mirialan Force users and their histories. A bit dry, but at least it held more information than his other recent download – Imperial Inquisitors: the special police keeping **you**  safe from dangerous rebels.

Ezra plopped himself back down on the crate and finished his ration, flipping pages and reading more on Master Luminara before he felt a pulsing in his pocket.

"Spectre Six, checking in," he said. There was a tinny chuckle before he heard Kanan's voice respond.

"Sounds like you're having a fun time, Spectre Six. Nothing new to report?"

"Not unless you want to hear about the quietest street in the Outer Rim. And please tell Spectre Two that next time I'd like a razor packed."

"You survived that escape pod crash just fine – which you  _still_  haven't told me about – so I think you'll be fine staying scruffy for a few more days, Six." Ezra sniffed and set his reader down, knowing that if he didn't rise to the bait, Kanan would just go ahead and ask him again.

"That pod was easy – I wasn't about to die of boredom anytime soon."

"I'd say boredom is a little safer than… oh, an Imperial Inquisitor?"

Ezra cursed under his breath. He hadn't breathed a word to his master about surviving planetfall with the Seventh Sister, and he had  _no intention_ of telling him they slept together, either. He'd already given Kanan enough to worry about when it came to his… liberal view of the Dark Side in the past.

"Well, I didn't really think it was a _big deal_ , Spectre One," he deflected, clearing his throat. Ezra almost wished he had come clean sooner if only to keep his mentor from thinking he was hiding anything.

"Well, considering you're still in one piece, I'd say you must've had a good reason to think that," Kanan said over the communicator. Ezra held his breath, wondering if the issue would be pressed, until the silence dragged on to an uncomfortable length.

"So, when did work –"

"From the very beginning," Kanan interrupted, this time speaking in a flat tone that left Ezra feeling awkward. "The last communication from the freighter mentioned an Inquisitor with a spinning blade. Plus, I don't think you'd go ahead and wreck the pod controls on your own.  _Plus_  it was hard to miss the broken lightsaber parts when we found you."

"Ah."

"Yeah.  _Ah_."

Time seemed to drag on between them again, while Ezra couldn't decide if he wanted the call cut short or to get everything out in the open already. As if picking up on his internal conflict, the comm. filled with a static-laced sigh while Kanan spoke in a softer tone.

"I'm not about to go asking about it, Spectre Six – as far as I'm concerned you were picked up without incident, and that was that. I just… I hope you know that if you _do_  have things you want to talk about, you can… well, you can come talk to  _me_ , you know?"

In the gutted apartment, growing darker as the sun set, Ezra hung his head and smiled. Sometimes he couldn't say just how much he appreciated his mentor.

"Yeah, I know Spectre One. Am I that easy to read?"

"It's not too hard to tell when you're carrying a secret, Six."

For a split second, Ezra wondered if  _he knew_. Worse – if everyone else knew, too. He couldn't imagine Zeb or Sabine or  _Chopper_  letting him carry on without poking some fun at his expense.

"I've got  _one_  question," he coughed, clearing his voice as he willed the thoughts away. As far as he was concerned, his sex life – even if it was sparse and recently with one of their  _mortal enemies_ – was his business, damn it. "Has there ever been any Inquisitors that… swapped sides? It's not like I can go and peek at the records anywhere…" He leaned over and spied through the blinds again at the secure facility, glaring at the building for its thorough security and no visible-entry-points.

"You can bet the Empire would keep  _that_  kind of bombshell out of the news, but… I can't say. Really the Inquisitorial is still a newer agency. There haven't been too many opportunities to try and recruit anyone from their ranks. Besides… these guys? They're not like Kallus."

Ezra listened as Kanan filled in the blanks – the details he knew already, like how so many future Inquisitors were plucked from their homes as babies for showing a talent with the Force. From then on, any semblance of free will was… just that. An illusion.

"They don't decide to join one day and fall out of love with the Empire when they see it's nothing like the posters. They're taught to salute Vader and the Emperor before they can walk properly. They're probably told that any rebellion is a treason and every mercy is a weakness, and for anyone blinded by the Dark Side… they might not be far off. Maybe try not to get your hopes up on this one, Six."

Ezra chewed his lip. It was nothing he hadn't heard before. Nothing he hadn't been telling himself for weeks now. Inquisitors were unrelenting. Unwavering. Independent, indeed, but they marched to the tune of the Empire. And still, he could recall how different, how _alive_  the Mirialan seemed to be while they were intimate.

' _She could've killed me anytime she wanted,_ ' he thought, for what felt like the nth time since he woke up alone in the crumpled escape pod.

"This might sound  _really_  cliché but… I thought I could sense something inside her. Something that wasn't the Dark Side, Ka – Spectre One."

He heard Kanan sigh softly in the communicator, and he looked away, wondering if he was starting to sound a little crazy. Or worse – a tad lovesick. Wasn't 'you're wrong, I see something different in them' that classic teenaged line from so many doomed romances?

"All I can tell you is that it hasn't happened before, Spectre Six. Not to any  _living_  Inquisitor. But then again, I don't think we'll ever see another situation like yours where everyone walked away in the end. So, what do your  _instincts_  say?"

Ezra laughed, pushing hair out of his eyes and leaning back against the makeshift seat.

"They tell me you've never really trusted them before."

"Yeah, well, what do they tell  _you_ _now_?"

He paused, thinking it over. He'd thought about it virtually non-stop for days now, tumbling ideas around his head, arguments and answers flying about as he debated himself.

"I don't know… I think there's  _something_  in there, though. Some part of her that's hiding just beneath the surface."

"Well then." Kanan's voice almost seemed soberer, and more patient. It was a tone he had heard in the past, whenever the Jedi was trying to impart that vague wisdom he liked to indulge in sometimes. "If that's what your instincts are telling you, it's up to _you_  to decide what to do with them next."

"Aren't you worried I'm going to end up losing a hand or something?"

"I'm your master – it's my  _job_  to worry. But I have a good student."

Ezra slowly inhaled, wondering if his worries in life had simultaneously gotten better and worse for the kind words.

"Besides," Kanan continued. "I'm more worried about angry Force-sensitive babies running around. Mirialans and humans are pretty compatible when it comes to 'family planning' you know."

Ezra Bridger felt the air getting sucked out of his lungs, sitting up straight and staring at the communicator. His mouth opened and closed and opened again, but no words came out.

"It was hard  **not** to notice all the scratches on your back, you know," Kanan added, somewhere between bemusement and matter-of-factly. "If I didn't know better, I'd say she was marking her territory. Spectre One, out."

The line went dead. Ezra continued staring at it, mouth hanging open as he tried to process…  _that_. For some reason, the idea that Kanan _knew_ was just so… he shook his head, doing his best not to feel embarrassed and failing miserably.

He snatched up the macrobinoculars again and peeked out of the blind, glaring at the records office. He had the itch to  _move_ – to get out there and finally do something. He'd spent too long getting a sore backside from sitting around. Too long reading up on Mirialan Force users that seemed to lead him nowhere. And now he couldn't shake the feeling that his Jedi Master was quietly laughing at his embarrassment from another system.

Ezra snatched up his belt and slipped out of his borrowed safe house, intent on accomplishing  _something_  that evening.

* * *

 

The Seventh Sister remained stony-faced behind her mask, even as she felt her stomach twist itself into a small knot. She was no stranger to death – both facing it and causing it. But there was an elegance, an art form, in wielding a lightsaber. The cuts were clean. The flesh was instantly burned and cauterised. There was none of that acrid stench of burning ozone that seemed to cling to so many blasters in the galaxy. Just smooth, destructive efficiency.

She hesitated before tapping her boot against the torn leg before her. A small group of insects flew up from the exposed flesh, buzzing noisily and angrily. She looked away, her visor once again shielding her disgust from the bugs feasting on the limb.

"Do you wish to update Imperial Command that you have located the Third Brother, Mistress Inquisitor?"

The Seventh turned and glared at the wobbling skeleton that was her K1 unit, pointedly ignoring the droid as she looked back over the grisly scene. Oh – she'd found the Third, alright. At least enough pieces of him to ensure he was dead, and a few extra body parts that she assumed belonged to his attackers. She bent down and studied a bloodied rifle, picking it up between her clawed gloves before examining it further. She sneered and tossed it aside.

No numbers. No scoring or wear. It wasn't unheard of for some hapless pilot or smuggler to try and face down an Inquisitor, but if the threat of their weapon wasn't convincing enough, it was no secret what happened to anyone who crossed them. Upset one, deal with two. Just as it was when Jarrus slew the Grand Inquisitor all those years ago, and she and the Fifth were put on the hunt.

Inquisitors made enemies. They made themselves into targets. But the Third Brother was always one of the best in their ranks, known for keeping an annoyingly cool head under every circumstance. The only people who could match him in skill would have been a Jedi or a very professional group of bounty hunters.

She doubted the mess of blaster fire and destroyed tissue was the work of any rogue Jedi, even one who may have managed to stay off their radar.

The Third Brother had been attacked, possibly even ambushed, and was torn apart by blaster fire. And she knew that once the report had been sent, she could expect herself to be paired with _another_  one of her 'siblings' while they were sent off to bring the Third's killers to a bloody justice.

A few weeks ago, it would have seemed  _so appealing_. The Third Brother was frustratingly efficient at his job, and for avenging his messy death, she would have seen herself rewarded with accolades and rank, no doubt. Another step up the ladder. Another glowing report on her file. More freedom. More privilege.

Now… she looked back down at the mess, able to discern a fragment of the Imperial patch from his uniform. Her insides sunk a little. The satisfaction in seeing a rival come to a sticky end was absent. There was no excitement at the thought of leading a cadre of loyal Stormtroopers on a manhunt. Just… emptiness.

The Seventh moodily wondered once more if this was thanks to Ezra Bridger, and what could've only been a life-wrecking brush with the Force. And she chuckled privately because the Third had managed to do at least one thing right – he'd taken her mind off the swirl of thoughts that had been dominating her for so long.

"I suppose we can call this sad lump the Third…" She caught herself, noticing for the first time the crescent-shaped shine a few paces away. Her head tilted and she moved, Mirialan grace carrying her safely over the detritus before she bent low. The Third's rotating handle sat in the muck, neatly disassembled. She frowned behind her mask.

"Droid," she snapped, and the straining struts made her miss her beloved ID9 Seekers  _so much_. By the time the K1 had managed to walk over the crime scene around them, she was holding the component between a pair of clawed fingers. "Scan for more pieces like this. Tell me what you find."

The mostly-faceless droid seemed to blink a few times, and she waited, watching it finally point with a stiff gesture. The Seventh moved again, cat-like among the carnage. She didn't get more than a few paces before she knelt low and found the lightsaber grip sticking out of the earth. She spied the ruby red kyber crystal a few paces further from there.

Her frown deepened as she stepped towards a collection of parts, identifying the activator and toggles that were present in her own model. A discarded datadisc sat off to the side, and she plucked it, examining it for damage before looking back at the mess of pieces.

Sabotage.

The Seventh Sister straightened and looked about, giving the scene another critical gaze. It seemed like so much of a messy altercation, but now it looked much more sinister as the pieces fell into place. The Third was too busy studying the datadisc – useless without a terminal to pull the information with, but perhaps good enough to distract an Inquisitor. By that time, his attackers would have drawn their weapons, and the lightsaber would have broken apart in his hand soon after bringing it to bear.

She felt a flash of hot realisation, understanding that she wasn't investigating a last stand – just a messy slaughter. Of a fellow Inquisitor, no less. A rival, yes, but still…

She effortlessly stepped over the bloody scene, snarling a "not now!" as the K1 began to remind her of the standard Imperial protocol that  _she knew_. The Inquisitor hopped into her grounded TIE and examined the disc, satisfied it was clean of mud and blood before slotting it inside the console.

A small hologram immediately formed, lighting up the cockpit with bioluminescence that took the form of a thin, regal man, complete with silver hair and prominent cheekbones. She leaned closer, recognising the shape of Moff Tarkin. _Why_  would the Third have  _this_ , she wondered, before the recorded message began to playback.

"As the project nears its completion," it began, and immediately she knew that she was watching something classified. Only a handful of Imperials were beyond the rank and reach of the Inquisitors, and Tarkin stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Vader himself.

' _What did Third get himself into?_ '

" – it has been decided that the Inquisitorial is to be disbanded and the project sterilised."

She felt her jaw slacken behind her mask. Something inside her cringed ever so slightly at the word 'sterilised.' There was no mistaking _that_  order.

"It has become an accepted fact that anyone sensitive to the supposed 'Force' is a danger to the Empire and her people, causing fear and alienation. Henceforth the current staff and resources are to be reassigned, while active members will be brought in to be euthanised. As loyal soldiers, they are expected to –"

She slumped back against her pilot's seat, her head filled with so much numbness that she missed the rest of the message.

' _Euthanised_.' The word seemed so formal and scientific. So much prettier than just 'voluntary suicide.' She allowed her visor to slide back as she inhaled deeply, willing herself to calm down. She was getting too bogged down in the details, clinging to whatever she could while trying to convince herself that it was mere madness. That it was merely some… big misunderstanding.

Except that she had just stepped over the bloody, shredded body of her fellow Inquisitor, no doubt executed by an Imperial order.

She felt sick. Worse than sick – she felt  _ill_ , all while her head pounded and her chest tightened. Something made her heartbeat race as a hot flush settled over her. Was she poisoned? Was she already dying…?

"Mistress Inquisitor, I feel I should –"

"Shut up!" she yelled, hands gripping the arms of her seat as she tried to reign herself in. It felt like every nerve in her body was on high alert, demanding that  _some action_  be taken now before it was too late.

' _It's not too late though,_ ' she told herself, rubbing her eye with the knuckles of one of her gloves. No – of course it wasn't too late. She had her TIE and her warning. She had options. She had…

The Seventh heard the K1 speak in its moody voice, bringing her head up to look through the window. The droid was busily communicating with someone, no doubt reporting in on her findings. Every instinct she possessed cried 'danger' as she climbed up and out of the cockpit, bellowing at the droid below her.

"Cease that transmission this instant!" She swung her legs over the bubble-shaped fighter and landed before the unit, fury and urgency motivating her to move on suddenly-shaky feet. "You work for  _me_ , droid, and I say no more communications!"

The K1 unit blinked that slow, annoying blink that it did, head tilting to the side as though it couldn't quite understand.

"No, Mistress Inquisitor. I may work for you, but I serve the Empire." The droid calmly brought its communicator back up and began talking again. She caught the words 'Third eliminated' before she clenched her fists. With a  _roar_ , she threw her hands up, willing every shred of the Dark Side that obeyed her to crush the K1. To flatten it and tear it to pieces and flatten it _again_. But the droid stayed standing, and her gut clenched and roiled, pushing her to her knees.

The Seventh began to panic, her mouth turning dry as the hot flush returned, settling over her muscles and ebbing into her bones. ' _It's gone_ ,' she thought with sudden, horrifying clarity. ' _The Force…'_ The presence that was with her for as long as she could remember was gone, leaving a gaping cavity inside her.

She looked up in time to see the K1 unit descending on her, bringing a metal fist down across her head.

* * *

 

Vice Admiral Rae Sloane sat in her quarters, sipping Corellian Brandy and staring at the immobile profile that hovered above her desk. The unblinking eyes of the Seventh Sister stared back, the same shade of menacing gold that most Inquisitors seemed 'gifted' with. Sloane felt her lip curling with distaste. Even as a frozen image, there was something sinister about the Mirialan. Some wickedness that was reflected in those caustic eyes.

They reminded her too much of Count Vidian, and she flicked the screen, sending the photo off the glass and re-reading the report. It was as dry as any other half-interesting document that came to her attention, but she took another sip of brandy and laughed with mirth as she got to the punch line again.

The literal punch, delivered by an old K1 droid that she had requested from her last Star Destroyer. It was enough to make her drain the remainder of her glass, allowing the warm liquor to pool in her stomach with satisfaction.

Ever since she came into her Captaincy years before, Sloane had felt that these Inquisitors were an offensive presence. A necessary evil perhaps, but with an emphasis on the 'evil.' She had seen time and again what they were capable of doing with their little mind tricks. Coupled with a burning need to get the job done no matter what and you had a weapon that didn't care for collateral damage. But now their time was ending, their usefulness all but gone in the shadow of the great Death Star.

Whatever the Seventh Sister was once, now she was a mere Mirialan, without an ally in the galaxy and nursing a sore head in her brig.

"Enter," she said in a clipped tone as her door chimed. An ensign marched towards her desk and snapped a sharp salute, offering her a datadisc.

"We've just confirmed the identity of the Rebel Infiltrator that was caught in the records office, Ma'am," he said. Sloane already had the file brought up on her screen, studying a face that seemed almost familiar.

"It appears to be one Ezra Bridger, Vice Admiral. He's rumoured to be the Apprentice of –"

"Kanan Jarrus," she interrupted, nodding and looking at the image again. The scruffy facial hair and the sly look seemed so  _fitting_  for Jarrus' Padawan. "I trust we're taking extra precautions with this one?"

"Indeed, Ma'am. Bridger seems to have made a career out of escaping from arrest, but we're keeping him isolated until we return to the Imperial Capital."

Sloane tapped her chin, bringing the previous file up. The waxy, yellow-hue of the Seventh Sister glared at her menacingly, a stark contrast from the tanned features of one Ezra Bridger. It seemed just so  _natural_  that an Inquisitor like her would be mortal enemies with a Jedi like him.

"Move him next door to the ex-Inquisitor," she said quietly, folding her hands. The ensign furrowed his brow, as if the command had been uttered in an alien dialect.

"Ma'am? I've read the reports, and it seems as if the Inquisitor has spent the better part of the last few years trying to _murder_  this Rebel."

"And she failed," Sloane answered, narrowing her eyes. "Both the Rebel  _and_  the former Inquisitor are heading to the Imperial Capital, where no doubt an execution awaits them. They'll be much more  _malleable_  when the times comes if they've spent their last days cursing one another in a maximum-security detention block.

"Now, move the Rebel prisoner and inform Lord Vader that the Seventh Sister has been 'relieved of duty,' ensign."

He snapped another salute and turned, leaving Sloane with her reports.


	4. More Jedi Fiction

_It goes without saying that I do not profit from this work, nor do I own the characters used within (something which I'm sure we're all grateful for.)_

_**Seduced By The Light** _

_**4. More Jedi Fiction** _

* * *

Lieutenant Chantili looked over the displays and blinked, resisting the urge to rub his tired eyes. He'd been staring at the readouts and feeds for so long that it seemed like they were all blurring together. Almost like a collection of celebration lights, instead of the sensitive sensors that were supplying his team with information. Somewhere in his gut, he felt an ache flare up, and he swallowed the last of his milky caf. With his luck, he'd probably gone and developed an ulcer from stress.

He'd counted his lucky stars when his commission came through, overseeing the detention block on Vice Admiral Sloane's personal Star Destroyer. She had a glowing reputation for hitting her targets swift and hard and getting them back into Imperial Space before they came around too much. In all the years he had served as head of the penal team, he had perhaps had no more than a few dozen inmates all around. Some of the cells were still virtually untouched.

And then he had  _these two freaks_. Chantili thumbed one of the cameras on and sighed as static filled the screen. He'd lost count of how many that made now, but ever since the Jedi had come around, they were steadily dropping off the network. No doubt pulled apart with those magic mind tricks of theirs. Still, if he was honest, he preferred static than the glowing eyes of the former Inquisitor. He hadn't encountered too many Mirialan's in his career, but if they all had her creepy yellow stare, then he was happy to avoid them. Better to let her sit and stew with the Jedi.

' _The Jedi_ ,' he thought morosely. It was bad enough that his pristine detention block was hauling a traitorous Inquisitor. They were frightening at the best of times, even when they were disarmed. But he trusted some insane alien stalker to at least appreciate the situation. To know just how many battalions of Storm Troopers and droids and turrets were waiting to cut them down. But the Jedi?

Chantili almost expected the entire floor to be torn apart at any moment. Those terrorists didn't know or understand just what kind of trouble they were in. All they knew was how to kill people and destroy things, and all without saying a word.

"Have they done  _anything_ yet?" he asked either of his two remaining staff. The pair of them never seemed to look up from their consoles, and for that, he was pleased. Whenever he was reduced to a skeleton crew, it felt as if time dragged on.

"Nothing, sir," one reported. "Near as we can tell, all they're doing is talking to one another, sometimes."

"Near as we can tell…?" The Lieutenant furrowed his brow as the other trooper looked up, his helmet guarding his features.

"It… it seems as if the Jedi has found some of the audio sensors, sir."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, mentally adding  _more_  inventory that would need to be replaced when they were safely out of his block.

"A Jedi and an Inquisitor," he muttered, scrubbing his hand down his lined face and silvery moustache. "I almost wish they'd just kill each other and be done with it."

"Please don't, sir," the other trooper moaned. "Orders from the Vice Admiral. If they look like they're on the verge of strangling each other, we must intervene. Command wants them alive for a public execution."

"I can still have my dreams," Chantili muttered, binning his cup and making a note to visit the infirmary before turning in for the evening. "Gentlemen, the block is yours. I wish you both well."

The door hadn't fully closed when he swore he heard one of them mutter a sarcastic "yeah, right."

"You know, if I didn't know any better – " The Seventh Sister stared at the ceiling of her cell, a long leg dangling over the edge of her bunk as she scratched her forehead. "- I'd say I was _back_ in a poor excuse of Jedi fiction." Her helmet, hood and visor were gone, confiscated with so much more of her equipment. There was nothing to filter the bitterness from her voice this time, nor to hide the dried blood that marred her temple from the K1's metallic strike.

"Well, I'm glad you're lying down for what I'm about to say, but I don't think this is much of a fairy tale." Ezra Bridger leaned against the bars of his adjacent cell, eyes closed and his hand hovering just outside. She watched him make a soft fist, followed by the sound of something sputtering halfway down the hall. The former Inquisitor rolled her eyes as he grinned, apparently pleased with his vandalism.

"I  _think_  that's all of them," he said, dusting his palms as though he had just completed his daily chores. "So – how does an Inquisitor end up in a cosy little place like this?"

The Seventh inhaled slowly, trying to reach out for that familiar presence she felt her entire life. That connection to something bigger and stronger than she was. That familiar tempest, crisp and patient like a storm of power, just waiting to be beckoned towards her. But the Force – or her connection – was gone. More than a day since her little 'episode' and she was left abandoned, by her teachings and her instincts. And now, officially, by her Empire.

It was a vulnerable – and sobering – feeling.

"It's called betrayal, Bridger," she said flatly. "I survived Malachor just to be struck down by a hunchbacked droid on Imperial orders."

"Betrayed…? But  _why_? Oh, no."

She turned and looked through cell bars, watching as the Padawan's face fell. She almost barked with bitter laughter as she saw just how  _guilty_ he looked as if he was responsible for her fall from grace.

It would've looked cute on any other day.

"Don't think so highly of yourself," the Mirialan sniffed, swinging her legs over the cot and slipping to the ground. She mirrored his pose, arms sticking out through the bars as she flicked her hand in dismissal. "I don't need the Force to read that guilty face of yours. You think that  _you're_ the reason I'm here? Well, don't be too disappointed, but I _didn't_ rush off to tell everyone that I slept with my enemy."

Ezra's brow furrowed and he scratched his chin, ignoring the annoying itch that came from an extra day of growth.

"Gee. I'm actually relieved to hear that I didn't get you fired from your terrible job," he muttered. He wrung his hands together, biting his lip as he peered across the hall from her. If he didn't know better, he'd have sworn she was someone else. Between so many duels across so many years, the Seventh Sister virtually glowed with confidence. If he had the upper hand, she was quick to welcome the challenge. If there were some horrible, immediate danger, she'd wet her lips and ask him to dance with her.

Now she just looked… ' _Wait_.'

"What did you just mean about not needing the Force…?" He watched the Inquisitor –  _former_ Inquisitor – inhale slowly before sighing. And for a moment he was struck by how _tired_  she suddenly looked. Ezra frowned. It didn't suit her, he thought. He didn't pretend to know her. They were enemies. Hell, they were constant adversaries, duelling one another time and again across the years. But he could always count on her to be full of dark energy. Every step she took was fluid grace and tension, like a tightly wound coil ready to spring. He'd watched her smirk and laugh and try to tempt him towards the Dark Side. He'd watched her waving coyly to him from across a chasm and promise to 'bring him around to her way of thinking next time.' And more recently, he was  _sure_ he'd seen the warmth and desire and (maybe genuine) affection darken her features and swell her lips. And Force take him – he'd caught himself over the last few weeks thinking just how  _prettily_  she blushed that evening.

Now all he saw in her flaxen features was… nothing. A resignation to fate. The spark of a woman who was once so full of energy was burning out.

"It's ironic, really," she began, and even her voice sounded hollowed out. "You see, you and me? We're  _relics_ , Bridger. We represent a power in this galaxy that's old, and powerful, and needs to go away. So, we're being hunted. And now?" The Seventh chuckled, a bittersweet noise that echoed down the hall of the detention block.

"Now after  _that_ little surprise, I'm left in the cold. I couldn't connect to the Dark Side of the Force to save my life." ' _Not that it would change anything_ ,' she thought, leaning back and turning away from the cell. She hated  _everything_  right now. She felt weak and tired and filthy. Her uniform was still two days old and torn from where she landed on the ground. The scab on her head itched like crazy. And now she'd gone and had a sad little whine in front of the Jedi who had been torturing her thoughts for too long, now.

She rubbed her upper arms and closed her eyes. Her career and her life were all but over anyway. What did it matter if her pride vanished along with them?

Her misery was interrupted by something colliding with the back of her head. The Mirialan turned with a scowl, wondering what game Bridger was playing at… when she reeled back, confronted with a tan bundle that hovered in the air before her. She blinked and gazed at the opposing cell, where Ezra stood unhappily, now relieved of his jacket.

"Take it," he urged her. "I know you  _like_  the cold, but maybe it's time for a change…?"

She narrowed her eyes, ready to argue that they were  _out_ of time and it was too late for any of that. She stopped herself short, presented once again with Ezra Bridger's pathetic doe-eyed face. The Seventh scowled and pinched the bundle, bringing it inside her cell and looking at it as if it were something unpleasant.

"I don't  _like_  to be pitied, Bridger," she warned, glaring at him. He shrugged, the Loth-cat look gone from his face.

"I don't like seeing you so uncomfortable," he said quietly. She sniffed and unrolled the bundle, this time crinkling her nose. It may have suited him, but it was too broad and long and bulky for her narrow frame.

"Brown isn't my colour," she said stubbornly. Bridger snorted.

"Neither is  _blue_ , remember?"

She shut her eyes. Oh, she remembered alright. All too well, again and again, for days on end. The Mirialan turned away and fingered the material, unable to help but compare the shoddy clothing to the second-skin of her Inquisitor's uniform. It would hinder her. Scrape at her skin and weigh her down.

What did she have to lose? The Seventh swung it up and around, being swallowed by the tan jacket in one swift movement. A second later she realised that the collar had the barest hint of whatever aftershave Bridger wore and she wrinkled her nose, this time from the memories it stirred inside.

"Well – now I truly am ready for the execution," she said, pushing one of the sleeves up to free her hand. Her cropped bob of hair felt greasy and dirty. Her body felt heavy. Her head itched from the old blood. And she was decked out in the second-hand clothes of her enemy and one-time lover.

Bring on the firing squad.

"And  _what_  are you smiling at?" she asked, noticing the silly look he was wearing, the corners of his mouth pulled up and crinkling.

"… is it corny if I said you look good like that?"

She rolled her eyes and sat back down on her bottom bunk.

* * *

 

"So." It felt like hours had passed before Ezra broke the silence between them. He stood, stretched, arched until his spine popped and leaned against his bars. The former Inquisitor had rolled away from him, facing the wall of her cell and breathing evenly. She could have been sleeping, if not for the swirl of emotions he could vaguely sense. Not so much fear but apprehension. Disquiet. Confusion.

Kind of like what he'd been dealing with over the last few weeks.

"Care to talk about the Bantha in the room?"

He was met with more silence and he waited, watching her.

"I know you're not asleep, you know."

The Seventh sighed, untucking her legs but keeping her gaze on the wall.

"I should hate you, you know," she finally said, her words slow and even. "I  _should_. And not just because I was taught to. Because I haven't been able to think straight ever since  _that evening_."

Ezra worried at his lip, keeping himself from voicing his agreement. From confessing he'd been wracked with memories and 'what if's' ever since he kissed her cold lips and felt her pull him closer.

"You know, I don't think I've taken our meetings seriously for years now. We don't fight, Bridger. We  _play_. We dance and spin and parry, and I've never tried to hurt you, really." She pushed herself up from the steel bunk and rolled over, fixing a tired, golden glare at him. Slowly she got to her feet, crossing the distance of her cell. "Because I _knew_ that one day you would join me. You'd see the truth about the Empire and our ways. You would become my apprentice, and I would make you the very best there was."

The sleeves of his jacket slid down over her arms, freeing her hands as she grabbed the cell bars. Ezra watched as some colour seemed to come back to her sandy skin tone. As if the memories of their duels, however skewed, was nurturing a pilot light inside her.

"And that evening I decided, no more waiting. I would  _break you_. I was freezing cold, and you were warm, and I was going to _take that_. And if that failed then damn it, I was happy to  **seduce you**." The Seventh narrowed her eyes, wetting her lips as her mouth began to turn dry. She had never given thought to catharsis – that entire notion of self-balance was just another Jedi belief. But she couldn't bring herself to stop. It was a weight she had carried for weeks, slowly building pressure. And Ezra Bridger, who started the whole mess off, had gone and burst the dam.

Well, let him own the fallout.

"I would have shown you everything you were missing, and it would've been so easy. You know why…? Because  _you kissed me_.  Because _you came to me_. And the very next instant I was undone because you tasted of warmth and colour and… " Her mouth opened and closed as she struggled before the Mirialan scowled and swore.

"I can't even describe it, and I've  _tried_. Believe me, I have." Tried? More like obsessed, she thought wryly.

Ezra swallowed and wished, not for the first time, that he could reach out and touch her. Just some small gesture, even if she looked ready to lash out at him for everything he'd done to her.

"It should've been just some quick, mechanical fling. I should've worn you out and captured you and finally made you  _see_ that you belonged at my side in the Empire. Instead…?" She laughed a dry, humourless noise that echoed in the hall. She sounded tired again, and Ezra couldn't peel his eyes from her. Standing there in his bulky jacket, he'd never seen the Mirialan look so… normal. So small.

"Instead it backfired because all I can keep thinking about are the touches. And the kisses. And those _noises_  you made for me."

He licked his lips and ducked his head, his cheeks warming as she smirked at his sudden embarrassment.

"Yeah, well, I guess I can't blame you for hating me for  _all that_ ," he mumbled, somewhere between sarcastic and honest. He could imagine just how bad it was for an Imperial Inquisitor to start doodling love hearts in her spare time.

"Oh, I  _should_ ," she nodded, leaning more against the bars. Her smirk faded into an easy smile, her golden eyes dancing across his features. She almost looked like the Seventh Sister she was before. That woman who would dare him to come closer and duel as a firefight would erupt around them. But there was no excitement or danger there this time – just familiarity. "But you know what? I don't think I could  _ever_  hate you. Even if you've turned my life upside down, you didn't lead me here. You just… made these last few weeks distracting, really."

Ezra shook his head. If he lived to be a hundred, he might never know the mysteries of a woman's mind. But then, this was a woman who used a deadly lightsaber duel to flirt, apparently. He was probably working with a handicap already.

"Besides. It was all rather… fun."

"Which part?" he asked, unable to keep from asking. "The chase or the catch?"

She smirked that familiar smirk, her lip curling up in a way that made her look dangerous to everything and everyone around her. Except, apparently, to him.

"Both, Bridger. Both."

* * *

 

"I'm going to regret this," the trooper grumbled, sipping from his fifth cup of caf. Already he could feel his insides rebelling against so much hot caffeine, but he soldiered on. Even with the stress of guarding not one but _two_ dangerous detainees, there was nothing to keep him and his partner awake. Most of the sensors and monitors had gone dark, thanks no doubt to the Jedi they held. They were flying blind at this stage.

"I hate when it's this quiet," he said, draining the last of his cup.

"Enjoy it," his offsider remarked. "Would you prefer having to pull them apart for a few hours instead?"

The trooper scoffed, turning to reply when a heavy  **thump**  rocked the floors, followed by an angry shout. He pulled his helmet on with a grunt, grabbing his blaster.

"You  _had_  to go and say it!" he belted, stomping out of the control room and followed quickly by the other trooper.

Their heavy footfalls came up short when they finally reached the adjacent cells, where the former Inquisitor was hovering in mid-air and clutching at her throat, choking and clawing desperately at an invisible assailant. The Jedi just glared back at her, hands outstretched and squeezing the air, drawing another bloody gurgle from his old enemy.

The troopers weren't surprised, but neither were they sure about just _what_  to do next.

"Hey, freak!" One of them pointed his blasted through the bars, aimed squarely at the Jedi's chest. "Don't make me kill you here and now!" His cohort tried to grab at the dangling Mirialan, just out of reach.

"Stop that!" he snapped, tagging his code to open her cell. "If they die,  _we're_ to blame!" He reached her just as she began to writhe and kick, struggling against her unseen attack. He hesitated, wondering just how to pull her down.

"You  _idiot!_ " the other trooper yelled, turning away from the Jedi. "Get out of their now!"

Too late. With alien speed and strength, the Seventh Sister stopped gurgling and brought her knees up, slamming the back of the trooper's helmet and dazing him. Her legs followed through, trapping his head between them and jerking him off balance with a sharp twist. She grunted as he went limp.

"Hey!" The remaining trooper brought his rifle to bear on the Mirialan. His warning was cut off as the gun flew behind him. He turned, not expecting the Jedi to have moved so quickly, reeling back before he was yanked against the bars. He crumpled to the ground unconscious.

"Told you I'd get us out," Ezra puffed, reaching out and calling the fallen tag to come to him. His cage slid open, and he dragged the fallen trooper inside, moving to unfasten the armour.

"My hero with the gentle hold," she said dryly, already stripping her victim of most of his clothes. Another bulky fit but she'd make do. The Seventh shucked off Bridger's heavy jacket and peeled the dirty Inquisitor's uniform from her chest. It would feel good just to have something cleaner on, she thought.

"Well I mean, you helped of course, but I'd say…"

She looked over her shoulder where Bridger kneeled, the trooper forgotten as he stared at her bare back. She almost laughed at his flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. Oh no, she thought – he was still pretty to look at. And to think of all those times she would invite him to join her side, whispering coy innuendos. She should've just duelled him naked.

"You've seen it all before, Bridger," she said, pulling the troopers top over her head and pausing. She turned, the fabric barely covering the tops of her breasts and allowing him a peek at her flesh. "Oh, wait… you haven't, have you?"

She pulled the material down and turned away, smirking to herself at his flustered look. It was another one of the little truths to the galaxy, and one she would always casually admit to: she enjoyed being the centre of Ezra Bridger's attention.

"Care to hurry up?" she called, snapping the last of the armour against her chest. "I'm not afraid to just leave you here, you know – might be just the distraction I need to slip away." The Seventh turned and crossed her arms, a delicate eyebrow arching upwards as she caught a glimpse of his bare backside before the tight uniform was pulled up around his hips. Playful images danced through her mind, and she shook her head – it was time to focus.

"… do you  _always_  go without wearing underwear?" She grinned with mirth as he turned and shot her a look.  
"I'll take that as a 'yes,' then."

Okay.  _Now_  it was time to focus.

"How do I look?" he asked when he fastened the last of the plating. She slowly looked him up and down, honestly scrutinising how the uniform hung off his frame. How many times had she insisted he'd look _good_  in Imperial black? It didn't matter – not since she had outlived her usefulness and was cold clocked by her droid.

"I want to hurt you," she finally nodded. "And I imagine it would be effortless, too." He grinned before tugging the helmet on.

"Perfect. Now, brace yourself: I'm going to say something you've wanted to hear for a  _long time_. I'll follow your lead."

The Mirialan rolled her eyes, pulling her own helmet over her head.

"Be still my beating heart," she remarked, grabbing the forgotten rifle and the tan bundle that was Bridger's jacket. "Follow along and try not to look so  _righteous_ , Padawan."

"Wait – you're not taking that, right? Won't it look suspicious?"

She turned away from him, holding the bundle of clothing close.

" _This_  was a gift. It's mine now. Deal with it."

She turned and walked smartly down the hall of the detention block, leaving Ezra to adjust his helmet and follow along.

"Not really what I meant…"

* * *

 

The pair of them marched through the hallways of the Star Destroyer, the Seventh never breaking her stride as she lead them up and down various sectors. Ezra did his best to follow suit, trying not to obviously look around or nod towards other staff to blend in.

"Stop that," she hissed when they entered an empty corridor. "You're a Stormtrooper and a _number_. You're neither nice enough or  _important enough_  to warrant a greeting back."

"You're getting a kick out of pushing me around, aren't you?"

She ignored him and marched on, dragging him into an elevator a few minutes later.

"Tell me," she said. "Have you ever been inside a shuttle that's been ejected while in Hyperspace?"

"Once, years ago." He remembered it well – they were running from  _her_ , after all. She nodded.

"Good – you won't need me to explain it to you. And before you ask,  _yes_ , you're going to steal a craft and allow it to fall out of Hyperspace. Survive that, and you can plot your jump and be gone before they realise what's happened."

The elevator was quiet for a moment before he grabbed hold of her shoulder, turning her around. Her helmet looked at the offending limb before turning back up to the disguised Jedi.

"Don't you mean  _we're_  stealing a craft?"

She swatted his hand aside, crossing her arms in defiance.

"Listen," she began. "It's true that all our little meetings were  _fun_ , but it's time to part ways. We're both wanted criminals from here on out, so you go back to your merry band of Rebels and try not to die. I'll be busy trying to do the same."

His hand came back to her arm, tighter this time. She glared up at him from behind her helmet.

"Come with me," he said, and she shook her head.

"You're asking me to trade one cage for another," she said evenly. Of that, she had no doubt. She was no longer in the Imperial service, and her connection to the Force was all but severed, but a Rebellion base was no sanctuary for her. At best, she would be interrogated and shot. At worst, left to wither away until she surrendered all that she knew. And _then_  shot.

Bridger couldn't protect her from that.

"Come with me," he said again, and she frowned. She swore there was a hint of  _pleading_  in his voice that time.

"I'm free to do whatever the hell I want for the first time,  _ever_ , Bridger."

"Please come with me?"

The Mirialan squeezed her eyes shut, grateful for the bulky helmet for hiding her features. It would have been  _so easy_  to get lost in daydreams again, just like all the other times over the last few weeks. Easy to recall fingertips sliding through her hair and affectionate whispers tickling her ear. But she balled her fists and pushed them down. She was  _so close_ to escaping all this. She'd have plenty of time to dwell on things when she was away in her own shuttle, and the galaxy stretched out before her.

"We had sex – we're not betrothed," she countered. It was enough to push him back, and she mourned the missing hand on her arm. But it was for the best. They would both be safer without one another, and besides – deep down… she didn't really think she deserved any happy ending. Just like when she stared into her kyber crystal weeks before, still feeling faint aftershocks. She cursed him and swore that she didn't deserve experiencing _so much misery. It was just a t_ ryst, after all. Only she had ended up being haunted by it. And she knew that she did deserve such tortures. And if she could go back, she'd still do it all over again with him. In a heartbeat.

But she nevertheless didn't deserve him.

She had been an Inquisitor. She had acted on orders for her mentor and her Empire. And she still knew that she was a terrible,  _terrible_  woman.

So why did she open her mouth and ask "Give me one good reason?"

Maybe she was just selfish like all Dark Side users were.

"Because you  _want_  to."

The Seventh Sister stopped struggling. Four words and she felt utterly disarmed. She looked up at him, and even behind the trooper helmet, she just _knew_  he was giving her that pathetic Loth-cat look again. She wondered if maybe it was her who taught him to be so manipulative, and she smirked at the thought.

"You know something…? All these years I was wrong about you. You'd have been the most difficult apprentice in the galaxy." Bridger snorted.

"Thanks, Kanan."

She rolled her eyes and faced the doors, waiting for the lift to descend the final floors.

' _Force help me_ ,' she thought as they crossed the hanger together. ' _Now we're sharing private jokes._ '

The pair reached a stationary Lambda shuttle, Ezra climbing the ramp and falling into the co-pilot's seat. The Seventh released the maglocks, casting a look around the bay for any other crew members at work. Her gaze fell on another shuttle, and she chewed her lip. It just sat there, waiting for her…

She pulled her stolen helmet off and tossed it aside, hearing it roll across the durasteel as she shut the hatch and climbed into the pilot's seat.

"Homing beacons sabotaged," Ezra reported, buckling his belt. "Ready?"

The Mirialan grabbed the yoke and lifted off, guiding the shuttle to the edge of the hanger, where the stars streaked by.

"Just saying goodbye," she remarked, and they tumbled out into space, spinning about as they were left behind by the speeding Star Destroyer. The wings slid open before they jumped back into hyperspace, away from the Empire - the only home she ever had.


	5. Gold Set In Inky Depths

_It goes without saying that I do not profit from this work, nor do I own the characters used within (something which I'm sure we're all grateful for.)_

_**Seduced By The Light** _

_**5. Gold Set In Inky Depths** _

* * *

The shuttle was quiet as they streaked through hyperspace. Ezra would make the odd route check and glance towards the ex-Inquisitor, who merely held the yokes and stared ahead. The reality began to sink in as they hurtled toward whatever coordinates Bridger had entered in the nav-computer. Towards a Rebel base. The same band of rogues who she enjoyed swatting aside, and usually with no survivors. The Seventh Sister squeezed the controls a little tighter. She was _willingly_  walking into the Rancor's den. Without backup. Without any weapon or Force talent at her disposal.

It wasn't like she had many options left to her. It was still jarring to think that she had been branded a threat and a heretic to the Empire so quickly. It wasn't just her job that had been taken from her or even her home. It was virtually her entire life. All she had known since she could walk was the teachings she had been given. The Imperial patch on her shoulder. A loyalty oath to the Emperor and his interests. And now his interests including ridding the galaxy of _all_  Force-sensitives, including herself.

What was that human phrase…? 'Between a devil and a deep blue sea?' As a species, they certainly had a flair for the dramatic, she thought. But she had been made an anomaly anyway. The ex-Inquisitor knew precious little about Mirialan customs as a whole – they served no purpose to her over the years. Why slow herself down with outdated traditions when she had the strength of the Empire to back her up and keep her secure?

' _Ugh_.' She resisted the urge to pinch her nose. She'd come full circle,  _again_. Sitting in a stolen shuttle, unable to return to her former life and glory. Woefully ignorant and unprepared for seeking out her home planet. And now, preparing to surrender herself on the (alleged) mercy of her enemies. And all thanks to the annoyingly-charming Jedi sitting beside her.

"You're nervous," he said, and she shot him a sideways look.

"Reading my emotions…? I'd have thought you Jedi were nobler than that, Bridger."

"Not reading," he defended himself, raising his palms. "You're projecting."

She sniffed and continued to stare out the viewport, reminding herself once again that she agreed to all of this because he looked at her and said 'please.'

"If we weren't wanted crooks before, I'd say we've jumped a few rankings since this morning. So – did you have any  _other_  ideas?" he asked.

Oh, she had a few. Her favourite involved pointing the shuttle towards the nearest civilised planet, finding a resort, checking in and not leaving the shower for an hour. And maybe, if she were honest with herself, dragging Bridger inside with her so he could wash her back. And her front. And then maybe see about recapturing some of those mind-numbing tingles when he played with her rear-

She shook her head, willing the images away. She may not have been an Inquisitor anymore, but she was still a soldier. She knew better than to sit about daydreaming when she was running out of space – it was time to compartmentalise and focus.

"I'm too busy trying to measure my worth to your Alliance," she said instead. "Because if they think I'm not worth feeding, I can forget about breathing fresh air for a long time." Her hands left the yokes and she sat back in the seat. She had such a strong urge just to tuck her legs up and hug them, wondering exactly when she started developing so much doubt in her future. Maybe she never really had any confidence in it – perhaps it was all just the Empire that she was willing to bet on.

Learning that it didn't return the gesture was almost enough to make her nauseous. No wonder her connection to the Dark Side was rattled beyond use.

"Hey – I promise you that's not going to happen." Ezra swung about, grabbing the armrest of her chair and spinning her to face him. He leaned forward and gave her an earnest look, determination flickering across his features. "I couldn't have made it out of that cell or off that Star Destroyer without your help, and I'll be damned if I let anyone forget it, either."

' _Oh yes – definitely a dramatic species_ ,' she thought, refusing to believe it would be so simple. It didn't matter. She had lived her entire life counting on nobody's strength but her own. She was ready to keep that tradition going. She may have lost a lot in a day, but some things just  _worked_  for her.

"Here's an idea – why don't you make a promise you  _can_ keep?" The Mirialan arched her brow, grabbing the edge of the console and swinging her chair back around. She may have agreed to join him in this fool's endeavour, but she wasn't going to let herself be naïve about her chances either…

Her thoughts were derailed when she felt her chair jerk back around to the side, swinging her about to face the Jedi again. She levelled him with a look of impatience, crossing her arms and waiting for the speech. There was always a speech. Some flowery promise of righteousness and justice, and –

He leaned forward, hands holding her still as he invaded her personal space. The Seventh stayed frozen as he closed the gap, tilting his head and brushing his lips slowly across hers. Almost immediately her body began to betray her, arching forward as she slowly pushed back against him. She didn't know _what_  to do – it was still so… new. Just the smallest, softest pressure on her mouth and she felt some of her worries flee, chased away by her quickening heartbeat.

' _There it is again_ ,' she hummed inside her head. There was that pleasant warmth that bled from his touch and made a little fire start dancing inside her. She wasn't sure she could ever explain it. All she knew was Bridger's tanned lips settled so neatly over her dark ones, and that was suddenly _very_  important.

"I promise you," he murmured, pulling back slowly. "That I'd  _really_  like to do more of that if you want – "

"Why?" She swallowed thickly, leaning back in her seat away from him. The Seventh crossed her arms again, fingers digging deep into the muscles of her arms, all while trying to reign in her thumping heartbeat and raging libido. How – _how_ was he able to have such power over her? Wasn't she always the senior, the superior? Wasn't she going to be the mentor? Her tongue flicked out over her moist lips, and she could _still_  taste him. She flushed with heat again, trying to force her foggy mind to cooperate.

This wasn't the same as that evening they spent stranded. Far from it. She had intended to use him for warmth and comfort, and leave him wanting more from her. And look how well  _that_ turned out. Instead, she was haunted by his phantom touches for days afterwards. But there was no sneaking away from him this time. No waiting until he curled asleep and slipped out into the night. Not while they were hurtling through hyperspace. And besides – she'd bet real credits that her image and record would be sent to every outpost from Lothal to the Outer Rim by now. There was no safe harbour to go and hide and sort herself out.

Which left her here – shrunk back against her pilot's chair and asking  _why_? Where did this sudden boldness come from, and how was he able to reduce her to a puddle of bacta with just a brush of the lips? Was it  _really_  some Jedi mind trick? Not likely – it was too… manipulative. Too personal. The old order put too much emphasis on not making connections to turn around and teach their students how to have magic kisses. It would've been laughable if she wasn't stuck there, trying not to reach up and touch the lightsaber scars that graced his face.

"Tell me  _right now_ why you did that Bridger because I'm not freezing to death this time." She needed answers. It had been years since she had playfully called a sixteen-year-old Padawan 'pretty' and offered to teach him real power. Years since he had grown tall and started sprouting facial hair, leaving her to wink flirtatiously and stretch more throughout their duels. But their dynamic never changed – she was the Inquisitor. She was the epitome of dark seduction and temptation. The path more _exciting_  and lined with luxury instead of dusty temples and self-control.

But deep down, part of her never, _ever_ expected him to take her hand and join her in the Empire. She could dream, and she had her confidence, true. But he was too good and noble and _stubborn_  for that. Maybe that's why she had as much fun as she did, grinning at him as their lightsabers clashed. To remind him of what he was missing out on. To show him everything he could have become if he was just a little more flexible…

And now  _he_  was invading  _her_  personal space. There was no convenient excuse like the chill of a damp cave or the rush of adrenalin. No reason to tilt his head and massage her mouth with his own. It was as confusing as it was raw and electric and  _exciting_.

"I wanted to. I  _like_  you," he said, worrying at his lip and struggling. His mouth opened and closed as he wrestled with his words, and she was relieved to see it wasn't just her that was fumbling in the dark.

"I mean… outside of my crew, I only know a handful of people in the Alliance. But add it all up, and I've known _you_  for longer than all of them." He rubbed along his shadowy jaw, brushing his bristles as he struggled to put it into words.

"You're  _attractive._ I don't even know your name, but I know you're talented. You're clever and strong. I've known people to break down and panic in a crisis, and I just know you'd take it as a challenge. It's easy to admire you."

Her arms began to loosen, releasing the defensive cross she kept over her chest. Part of her wanted to vanish – she never gave much thought to the whole 'emotional confessions' tripe that was in so many holo films. But now that she was on the receiving end… she wanted it to stop as much as she wanted to hear more.

' _Oh, great – more confusion_.'

"I've been a  **bad girl**  you know," she said. This –  _this_ was their dynamic. The familiar verbal jousts where she pushed his buttons with little thoughts and ideas to see how he reacted. But now, she was anxious about what answers she'd get. Nervous to see just how much things could change between the two of them. To see just how far he was willing to go to invite her to his side. And she needed to know.

"You're a  _tough girl_ ," he deflected. "And I'd say you've scared more Stormtroopers than Alliance pilots by now."

She sniffed and smirked. Oh, he knew her well in that regard. The revelation came with another flush of heat inside her.

"I'm also much older than you, you know," she pressed. He rolled his eyes at that one.

"By a  _whole few years_. Bringing out the big arguments now, are we?"

"Fine – ever considered that maybe I  _don't_  like you? That I've only ever been interested in your power? And as soon as I had it, I'd break you in half and throw you aside?"

He leaned in again, looking up at her with a playful, patient look dancing on his features.

"I think you like me," he said, matter-of-factly. "And I think you'd like to kiss me again."

Primrose hands reached for his neck and pulled him forward. She caught just a glimpse of his grin before she kissed him, drawing her teeth across one of his lips possessively. Nothing really mattered at that moment. She didn't care that she was proving him right. She didn't even bother that she was dirty, grimy and wearing a stolen uniform. Or that he was just as well-travelled as she was. It didn't matter that fatigue was starting to weigh her down, or the yokes of the shuttle left her fingers icy cold. It didn't even matter that he was _so very bristly_ , and every push and tilt left a scratch on her face.

All that really did matter was Ezra Bridger was kissing her back, again, and leaving her feeling breathless and warm and  _wanted_.

She could still taste him when they parted, foreheads touching one another. It was cliché and silly but oh so  _easy_  for her to just gaze into his eyes for a while, wondering just when they'd become such a striking shade of steely blue. When had the pretty boy she wanted to make her apprentice turn around and become a man? Much less one she'd sit beside and have such painful talks about emotions and revelations with?

The Mirialan gazed at him, waiting for him to blink or look away. It was the last of their little games that they would play, and one that she always won. It was easy to stare at him – he had filled out nicely. His features were rounded, his nose prominent and his eyes  _too blue_. Even grown and bearded he was pretty. But she was the Seventh Sister. Her lips were dark. Her hair was usually hidden beneath an Imperial hood. Her eyes were corrupted – gold set in inky depths. Sith eyes. One smirk, one wink, one bite of her lip and he would look away.

All he did was stare back, watching her watching him.

"I always  _knew_  you found me attractive," she chuckled, watching him roll his eyes again.

"Should've mentioned that confidence. Just,  _woo_  – such a turn on." The ex-Inquisitor found herself fighting a grin at it all – the familiarity and the intimate gestures. It... wasn't so different than before. Not really. Maybe all they'd done was trade their lightsabers for another kind of duelling. A clash of wits and whiles instead of blades.

"… this feels disgustingly sappy to admit, but since you brought it up? I don't  _have_ a name." It was valid – if her parents had ever given her one it was long gone, probably stored in some dark corner of the Imperial archive if anyone bothered to jot it down. She had an identification number through her training, and a Sibling title when she passed her trials.

The list of things she would need to change was growing longer every moment. Along with 'stop sounding like a human adolescent.'

"And how is  _that_  meant to be sappy?"

"Because until  _now_  I hadn't needed one."

"Well, in the meantime, mine is  _Ezra_ – so, you know. Feel free to use that instead of just 'Bridger' all the time?"

"I'll consider it," she hummed, tilting her head and giving the Padawan a coy look. "'til then, remind me of that promise you made a minute ago…?"

Ezra's fingers slid through her cropped locks of hair, and she purred, grinning as his lips brushed against hers once more.

* * *

 

She slipped out of the cockpit as he busied himself with the long-range receiver, informing his Alliance of their make and model of the shuttle. It would make for a poor first impression if they swooped down on an Imperial ship and threw the base into high alert.

The Mirialan sorted through the various lockers, gathering as much as she could and throwing them into a discreet corner. It wasn't the first time she wished that the Empire would install a refresher in their service craft, but she'd made do in the past. And if she really was going to go ahead with Bridger's –  _Ezra's_  – plan of defecting, she'd no doubt have more uncomfortable days ahead.

For now, she had reached her limit with the uniform she had stolen from the detention block. She peeled the layers away and flicked them aside, her Inquisitor's boots and bottoms following suit. It was with a weary sigh that she sank down onto a seat, relishing the sensation of fresh air over her flesh. The icy durasteel of the floor on her bare feet was as relaxing as it was sobering – she had felt hot and bothered ever since the Padawan had gently sucked her bottom lip and leaned back, teasing her over how warm her face was.

The ex-Inquisitor pulled a refresher towel close and patted herself, cleansing some of the dust and grime from her day in captivity. It still didn't beat a long, hot shower, but it went a long way in easing some of her tensions. With as much grace as her species could muster, she stripped off the last of her clothes, towelled herself off and pulled on some recovered underwear.

She told herself it for her own sake, for health and hygiene. It had nothing to do with making a better impression with Ezra's Alliance friends or Jarrus' crew. What would _they_ care if she appeared with sweat-matted hair and clogged skin? Right?

The Seventh shook her head and sifted through the parcels of clothes, studying flight suits of different sizes until she found one close to her measurement. Nothing as sheer and protective as her Inquisitor's uniform, but at least they were clean. The pants refused to hug her waist correctly but it was nothing a good belt wouldn't fix. She didn't bother with the vest – there was no getting rid of the gaudy Imperial crest that was affixed to the back. Besides, her newly gifted tan jacket was… much nicer. Big, bulky and heavy, but still.

Nicer.

She tugged on some new boots and strode back to the lockers, looking herself up and down. A hodgepodge of clothes hung off her narrow frame, but near as she could remember, most Rebel's got about the same way. It was an unassuming disguise all around. One she knew she'd need to perfect if she planned on staying alive and out of reach of Imperial hands. All that was left now was her face.

She frowned, leaning closer to the mirror. Free of her helmet, she never really noticed before that she had small lines forming near her mouth. Or the mild creases in her forehead, usually hidden beneath her hood. Since when were  _they_  there? Wasn't her late twenties still too young to be showing these signs? She recalled her argument of being 'much older' than Ezra – something neither of them seemed to take very seriously. But still…

And her  _eyes_. She knew well enough that they weren't meant to look this way; they just always were, for as long as she could remember. Angry gold, ringed with crimson. Onyx instead of pearl. Wicked instead of welcoming. The warmth that was tingling in her chest started to morph and twist into a chill. Nagging doubts surfaced in her mind. Just  _how_  was he able to stare at her so long and easily…?

She shut the locker door, squeezing her eyes closed. ' _Enough of that!_ ' she scolded herself. She refused to start questioning her confidence or fret over her looks. She'd already broken enough of her rules today, demanding to know what her enemy-turned-lover saw in her. She wasn't going to start leaving herself vulnerable to self-doubt on top of it. She was a soldier. She was, _was_  an Inquisitor. A lightsaber and Force-sensitivity didn't define her: they just gave her an advantage in an unfair fight.

She'd make do without them. After all, Bridger had said it himself. In any crisis, she saw a challenge.

This was just another opportunity in her life. A chance to start over, even.

She opened the locker back up and stared at herself in determination. That's what this was. A chance to start fresh. To start strong. Maybe with someone else too, who's lips she  _still_  believed fit so perfectly against her own.

A fresh start deserved a good one. She reached into the back of the locker, retrieving a pair of shackles and tucking them up inside the loose sleeve of her jacket.

* * *

 

The shuttle careened over lush treetops, passing by old pyramid structures as it began to descend. The Seventh gave a low whistle as she took in how organised everything was – she had long believed the Rebel Alliance was a shamble. Perhaps not the 'cancerous growth' that the Imperial Propaganda made them out to be – they _did_ make life interesting – but it wasn't hard to picture them as a crowd of desperados. If not for some of the more talented members like Jarrus, or the infamous Fulcrum agents working undercover, she imagined they'd have been wiped out already.

"Just what did you tell them, anyway?" she asked, feeling the shuttle gently touchdown on a landing pad. Outside she observed a signalman bringing his batons down as a group of soldiers marched up towards them. Beside her, Ezra hummed and cleared his throat.

"Well, no name, remember? So I just said there was an ex-Imperial from 'high up the chain' with me. Sound good?"

She said nothing – when the ramp was lowered, she figured his indiscretion might have bought her an extra second or so at most. Even if by some miracle she _wasn't_ known amongst the rebel ranks, it wouldn't be hard to put it together. The Empire preferred human staff – aliens like herself or Thrawn were recruited because they were too valuable not to be. And a glimpse of her eyes would tell the rest of her story.

She tucked her hand higher up the bulky sleeve of his –  _her_  – jacket, standing and motioning for him.

"Come on, Bridger," she said. "It'll be rude to keep them waiting."

He said nothing, powering down the craft and lowering the ramp. It was just nerves, he told himself, stepping down onto the rebel base of Yavin IV.

"Spectre Six!" Almost immediately he found himself clapping arms with a Lieutenant Commander, enthusiastically welcoming him back and flanked by a cadre of armed soldiers.

"I know you missed me," Ezra joked, waving at the assembled crew. "But all this?  _Really_  unnecessary." But the Lt. Col. Shook his head wryly.

"Sorry, sir. Standing orders when dealing with defectors. Where  _is_  this operative you helped rescue…?"

" _Ah_  – now let me clear the air right now.  _She_  rescued  _me_ , so let's not get carried away with waving blasters –"

The Seventh stepped down off the ramp, gazing past Bridger at the welcoming Rebel. A look of sheer fright crossed his features, and he waved his hand furiously, bringing all four soldiers to bear on her. Ezra was between them immediately, arms flailing and shouting them down.

"Enough! Stand down, damn it! I said this wasn't necessary!"

The Mirialan knew they weren't listening. They weren't paying attention to the Jedi blocking their shot – just the former Inquisitor with the Sith eyes that stared back at them.

"Ezra."

She watched him stiffen, noticing small muscles twitching along the back of his shirt as he turned and looked at her. She spent an all-too-brief moment looking up at him, committing little details to memory, before she broke one last rule for herself.

"I'm sorry," she apologised. Confusion etched its way onto his face, gazing back down at her as a clean _click_  sound filled the air.

She lifted her hands, now shackled neatly in the handcuffs she had taken from the shuttle's locker. The Seventh stepped beside him, raising her palms and showing off the manacles she now wore.

"I surrender."

She was suddenly flanked by two soldiers, taking her arms and steering her away. From the shuttle. From  _him_.

"No, no no." She looked over her shoulder as he moved towards her, a look of confusion and hurt on his face. "You don't have to do this."

She gave him a smirk, coy and playful.

"Hey – don't worry. I'm a  _tough girl_ , remember?"

The guards pulled her forward, marching her down the path and away once more. Pilots and droids and crew stopped and watched, but neither herself nor Ezra noticed.


	6. Starving and Ferocious

_It goes without saying that I do not profit from this work, nor do I own the characters used within (something which I'm sure we're all grateful for.)_

_**Seduced By The Light** _

_**6. Starving and Ferocious** _

* * *

Ezra Bridger stalked about Yavin Base, ducking in and out of control rooms while looking for anybody he could talk to. For the better part, he merely found technicians and pilots, sometimes stopping to ask about his fashion sense. It didn't even register that he was still clad mostly in stolen Stormtrooper armour – everything had been a rush since 'Sister' had been marched away at blaster-point.

' _Sister_  –  _really have to work out what to call her_ ,' he thought distractedly. She didn't seem the type to warm up to pet names, anyway. Not that it would matter much if he couldn't spring her from Rebel jail, but for that he'd need  _someone_. Kanan or Zeb. Or even  _Chopper_. Or…

"Hera!" He waved with relief towards his Twi'lek leader, weaving in between staff and crates of equipment as she pushed her charts aside and began stomping towards him.

"Spectre Six!" she yelled over the clamour around her, giving him a stern look as he finally met her halfway. "I  _hope_ you've got a good reason for causing so much concern. Your last official check-in was _two days ago_. And what's this I hear about you bringing back an  _Inquisitor_  with you?!"

Ezra gave her an apologetic look, opening his mouth to answer before finding himself scooped into a familiar hug. Hera squeezed his shoulders, rocking the bulky armour about as she sighed.

"You've got a  _lot_ to explain, mister," she murmured. "But I'm just glad to see you're okay."

The Padawan pressed a hand against her back, forever grateful for the Twi'lek who looked out for him in such a motherly role.

"Sorry for making you worry," he whispered, and she graced him with a smile, rapping her knuckles against the flimsy breastplate he wore. She nodded behind her, lekku bobbing with the movement.

"C'mon, get out of that ugly stuff and spill, already. Your message didn't give us much to go on you know."

She led him away from the busy hub, accepting pieces of Stormtrooper uniform as he pried them off and talked animatedly of his (dismal) operation. From his attempt at sneaking inside the Imperial Data Centre to tripping a heat sensor, leading a chase through unfamiliar floors and finally culminating in being stunned by a detachment of Stormtroopers.

"When I came to I was inside a detention block, already on my way to… well,  _somewhere_  unfriendly. And that's when it all started –  _she_  was in the cell opposite mine!"

Hera crossed her arms and arched her brow, regarding him carefully. The dim hallway they stopped in was quiet, at least for the moment, but he almost wished that someone would come through in between them. There was something…  _knowing_  about her stare, and it made Ezra uncomfortable. Did Kanan tell her about his own suspicions? Force knew they were  _close_ , but he didn't think his Master would go and spill the beans like that, right?

"I don't know what I'm more concerned with, Ezra. I mean that you were captured and in space before you came to? Because that's bad. But I really don't like how you tackled your assignment and left _this_  behind." Hera reached behind her utility belt and produced the familiar hilt of his lightsaber, pushing it into his hand. "When you failed to check in, Zeb went to try and find you. All he found in your hidey hole was  _that_ , so go and apologise for sending him into a panic. Which you did."

"Totally sorry for that, really, I am," he nodded. "Not even going to point out that it's  _hardly_  my fault. But Hera, getting back to the cell block –"

The Twi'lek raised her hand, silencing him.

"Let me guess – the Seventh Sister, who's been stalking us for years now, has turned on her Imperial masters and wanted to cuddle up to us?"

For a horrifying moment, Ezra thought that Kanan really did share everything with Hera. It was a relief when she sighed and shook her head, muttering how 'silly it sounded.'

"For what it's worth, I think  _they_  turned on her. I mean, she was attacked by an Imperial droid and… she's having trouble connecting to the Force since it happened."

"Ezra – don't you think it's just a  _little_  suspicious that the same Inquisitor who's made a hobby out of fighting you, wound up in the same ship, in the  _same_  detention block as you?"

He bit his lip and shook his head, burying the urge to tell her it was  _more_  than that. Hera already acted as something of a surrogate parent towards him – he could imagine how she'd react if he told her he wasn't a stranger to how well the Seventh kissed…

"Hera, I don't have all the answers. All I can tell you is she's in danger. The Empire would've done to her what they were going to do to me, and if we hadn't worked together, we'd  _still_  be there."

Hera narrowed her eyes and looked away, trying to process everything. The rumour mill had been chewing up all sorts of ideas since Ezra's communication of a defector, but she never expected  _this_.

"I trust her on this one," he urged, leaning down to look his captain in her eyes. "And I want to help her out.  _Please,_  Hera. She doesn't need to be kept under lock and key." But she silenced him again, raising her hand stiffly.

"I  _don't know_ what's going on – all I know is Kanan says he's 'following your gut instinct' on this one. And we all know that's not a fabulous track record, Ezra." He looked affronted, opening his mouth before she spoke over him.

"Be that as it may! Your new 'partner' surrendered herself to the Rebellion. If she wants amnesty or she's serious about changing teams, it's up to her to prove herself now. The best thing you can do for everyone is keep your distance and get back to work."

"But –"

" _Ezra_. If you're tangled up in this mess, personally or emotionally or  _whatever_ , it's only going to complicate matters. For now, hit the refresher and settle back in.  _Before_  I pull rank on you."

He opened his mouth again before a stern look made him think otherwise. The Twi'lek watched as he nodded, seemingly resigned to the situation, before moving to the end of the hallway.

"Hey," she said softly, stopping him before he left. "I'm glad you're home safe with us. And if she really helped as you said, well… she's got my thanks, too."

Ezra nodded and walked away, leaving Hera alone with her thoughts. Kanan was right – he had  _some_  investment in all this Inquisitor fiasco, but how deep it ran was yet to be seen.

"Really gotta remember to pack a razor for him next time," she mumbled to herself. The boy really  _was_  scruffy after a few days.

* * *

 

"How we doing, gentlemen?" Hera nodded towards Kanan and Kallus, stopping beside the communications console they were using.

"We've just received Fulcrum's report," the former Imperial Agent reported. It was always a contrast to see Kallus besides Kanan – despite fleeing the Empire two years previously, he still made sure to wear crisp clothing and stood to attention where possible. It wasn't hard to spot the military man from the cowboy Jedi.

"About that," Kanan said. "This new Fulcrum's  _way_  too tight with their messages. It's like prying information from a Sarlacc's belly."

"We can't  _all_  be people person, Master Jedi," Kallus smirked, and Hera shook her head.  _Boys_.

"Getting back to business," she pushed. "What's the latest?"

"So far, everything Ezra says seems to check out." Kanan shrugged, crossing his arms and stroking his bearded chin thoughtfully.

"Indeed," Kallus continued. "There have been reports that several of the Inquisitorial have been killed under 'unusual circumstances,' though that information is being suppressed. Our  _guest_ , meanwhile, has become a celebrity." He tapped a few keys, summoning a glowing wanted poster of the Seventh Sister. Hera read the list of charges and the reward, frowning.

"High Treason, Practicing Jedi Arts? Wanted  _dead_. They're not taking any chances with her…"

"There's more. This poster has been sent to numerous governors and a small selection of bounty hunters. However, it's being kept off the Imperial networks for the better part." Kallus folded his hands behind his back, giving Hera his full attention.

"The Empire is retiring the Inquisitorial, and rather permanently at that. If the Seventh Sister was going to face some public execution with young Bridger, then their escape should have propelled her into the public wanted papers. Yet, they're pretending she doesn't even exist."

"None of this makes sense," Hera sighed with frustration. Inquisitors were all around tough bastards. The very sight of one usually rocked a hardened smuggler to their core or convinced most fugitives to give up peacefully. Why do away with them at all?

"Actually, it makes  _perfect_  sense," Kanan mused. "I've heard whispers that the Emperor  _fears_  anybody who's sensitive to the Force. Even Inquisitors – and they've only ever displayed the most rudimentary talents of the Dark Side. Vader's probably been warned not to make them  _too_  skilled."

"You're suggesting they've been sabotaged from the very beginning?" Kallus asked.

"Hey – if  _I_  felt threatened by every Force-sensitive around me, I'd fear the mean ones just as much as the nice ones." Kanan pushed away from the console he leaned against. "Inquisitors have always been a last resort for the Empire. They're only let off their leash if the threat's big enough. Maybe every assignment is a chance for them to grow more skilled or learn a new perspective. Now…"

"Now the Emperor's decided they're not worth the risk anymore," Hera finished grimly. As much as it looked like Ezra's story was checking out, their ex-Inquisitor prisoner sounded more and more dangerous every minute.

"I think it's time I had a little talk with Ezra's new friend," Kanan murmured. Hera nodded and grabbed a communicator.

"Good idea – I'll get an escort ready to – "

"No no, that's not needed," he urged. "But I think I'll take some reading material, just in case."

Hera and Kallus exchanged looks as the blind Jedi left.

"I wasn't aware his senses had become so acute," the former Agent remarked, sounding impressed. Hera sighed.

"They aren't – he's just cursed with the typical Jedi sense of humour."

"Then you have my condolences."

* * *

 

The Seventh closed her eyes and concentrated again. Trying to reach out. Trying to feel some of that familiar presence that had accompanied her through life. It was risky of course. Ever since her surrender she had been kept in a discreet brig, under the watchful eyes of droids and staff alike. What the Rebel Alliance lacked in facilities, they made up for with efficiency. Hardly a moment had passed when she didn't have at least one armed soldier patrolling nearby.

She brought her legs up underneath her, scrunching her face up and trying to block out the noises of the compound. ' _Come on_ ,' she pushed herself. ' _You've been in worse_.' The Mirialan inhaled, held, and slowly breathed out. She tried again, expanding her awareness, testing the proverbial waters.

If she had to describe the presence of the Dark Side, she would think of a watery current. A massive body that would wash over her, cooling her core and keeping her level-headed. And then, when she was at her best, it was a sudden swell. A snap. A riptide, ready to wash away all in her path. The Dark Side was cold, but so was she. Especially when she held a _grudge_.

She told herself that she needed her connection to survive. Without her power, she was no good to anyone. Not to these banded together commandos, and probably not to herself. And if she did find herself suddenly thrust back onto the battlefield, she'd rather _not_  have to rely on Bridger rescuing her backside every time.

She scowled, the mental image of the Jedi Padawan floating to the surface of her mind and throwing her focus out the window. Couple it with ideas of him  _literally_ caressing her ass and she was back to square one. It was so ironic. For years she danced around him, the very picture of playfulness and sensuality. She'd smirk and coo and revel in his frustrations. Every aggressive swing of his lightsaber left her enjoying the soft embrace of the Force, knowing she was steadily getting under his skin.

And then he grew up and kissed her, and threw her entire blasted image and reputation and  _thought process_ out the window. The Seventh squeezed her eyes and tried to concentrate. To focus on the last day and a half. The discovery of her fellow Inquisitor. Her betrayal. Her imprisonment. Her  _planned execution_. She was angry, but it wasn't enough – she should've been furious. She _needed_ to be because she knew nothing would be so satisfying as to reach out with her mind and crush her traitorous Empire with the same power they taught her. Personal grudges were motivating, like that.

' _But then the not-so-little Padawan probably wouldn't like that,_ ' a voice whispered in her head. And she sighed, feeling the focus she needed slipping through her fingers once more. Ezra Bridger may have found her confidence attractive, but he probably drew the line at Sith-influenced murder. And there was no use denying it anymore – his opinion of her had become _very_  important to her lately.

She stopped trying to reach out to her missing connection and allowed herself a respite, casting her mind forward to the possible future. A 'waste of time' for an Imperial Agent, but she had all the time in the world now. Time to imagine scoffing at poor holovids with someone else, or travelling with preferred company. Or lazy mornings in bed big enough for two…

The Mirialan found herself drifting in her thoughts and all the possibilities that were once closed to her. And _there_  was her focus. But it wasn't the cool waters of the Dark Side she felt: just the same relaxing warmth that seemed to blanket over her ever since that night they spent together…

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything." Kanan Jarrus had all but materialised beside the cell door, startling the former Inquisitor out of her thoughts. She glared in annoyance, wondering if the blind Jedi had become attuned enough to sense her sudden fright before she cleared her throat.

"What could you possibly be interrupting?" she asked, planting her boots back on the ground and turning towards him. "I'd invite you in, but the place is a mess I'm afraid." She found it  _oh so easy_  to slip back into her familiar role with him; a mixture of sly confidence and biting wit. It was even easier since Jarrus had interrupted what little focus she had found.

"Too late," he replied, and she was taken aback as he opened her cage and closed it behind him. Kanan turned a chair around and sat down, inviting an awkward silence between them. Her 'relaxing warmth' evaporated as she remembered, once again, that she was doing all of this because Ezra Bridger said 'please.'

"So," the Seventh began. "Is this an official interrogation…? Congratulations on climbing the ranks if it is." But the Jedi screwed his face up and waved his hand in dismissal.

"Please! I'm not even sure what my rank around here is," he said. "But I do intend to find out just what kind of a threat you are."

' _Well – he's honest if nothing else,_ ' she thought. "You know, the Imperial propaganda services don't do you justice. It's not hard to see why you Rebels earn so many victories – if I  _w_ ere a threat, I'd think twice before acting on it."

Kanan sat forward, clasping his hands. It was almost bizarre, she thought, as he seemed to study her through a shield with sightless eyes. It didn't stop him from tilting his head like a bird, almost like he was peering at her.

"I don't think you've ever been a  _real_  threat to this Rebellion. Not to dismiss your skills," he quickly added. "- but it's pretty clear that you've only ever had eyes for coaxing Ezra over to your side. I'd say you've even ignored most of our operatives if you've been in a rush."

So, that was it – the typical Jedi mentor was concerned if she was a threat to his student and not his Rebellion.

"You're in luck then," she muttered. "Not sure if your Padawan's told you or not, but my connection to the Force has been… misbehaving itself for a few weeks. It's virtually  _lost_  to me by now."

"So – ever since you spent the night with Ezra?"

Her heart stuttered. Of all the things she expected, it wasn't  _that_ accusation. Was it actually possible that Bridger had gone and spoken of **that**?

"I don't know what you're talking about," she snapped, refusing to be lured into  _this talk_  with Kanan Jarrus.

"I may be blind," he said calmly. "- but boy, did you get  _really_  defensive right now. So I'm going to guess that I was right." The Mirialan turned and narrowed her eyes, ready to ask what the Jedi was blathering about before he sat back in his chair.

"We found the remains of your lightsaber when we picked him up, plus a  _lot_  of scratches going up and down his back. And if you didn't leave that bite on his shoulder, well…" Kanan shrugged. "Ezra never said a word, but you left enough evidence to tell the story. You've just gone and confessed to it, is all."

The Seventh  _groaned_ , painfully aware that he lured her into admitting her relationship, and all with the oldest ploy in the book. More than ever she missed her connection to the Force. She never used to be so emotional and reactive. And it would've been so  _satisfying_  to strike the Jedi across the face with the power of her mind.

"I hate you  _so very much_  right now," she murmured. Kanan chuckled, and she hated him more for it.

"Well, I think I've got my answer."

"What – whether I slept with Ez – your Padawan?"  _Damn it all_. She looked away and glared daggers at the wall. It was just as well this was a 'social call' – she wouldn't have lasted a minute if it were an official interrogation.

"Sort of. See, it's funny. The  _old_  Seventh Sister wouldn't hesitate to admit it. Hell – you'd have probably written your name on him somewhere just to show off your victory." She sniffed and looked away. She never cared much for the opinion of Jarrus, and she didn't see the point in starting  _now_.

"What do you think all those scratches were?" she asked sarcastically. "But message received – you believe I was utterly shameless."

"Oh, I know you are. Or  _were_. But now? Now you're  _protecting him_. And not as a teacher, no. You're keeping his secrets. You're protecting him as a  _partner_. And for what it's worth –" He leaned forward, taking the bottom of her bulky jacket and tugging. Ezra's coat was almost like a robe on her while she was sitting down.

"- looks like he's protecting you, too."

She looked away, feeling the awkwardness from before returning full strength. It really  _was_  the mythical 'talk' that she was receiving. That confronting dialogue where a parent sized a person up and judged if they were good enough for their child. Except instead of a typical suitor, she was several years older, wanted on  _both_  sides of the law and raised to believe in the Dark Side of the Force.

Oh – and she had a history of promising dark, rich rewards if said child gave himself to that corrupting power of hers. Then they could  _totally_  be together with matching tattoos and promise rings and such. And doodling their initials inside little love hearts, of course.

"You know, for a second there it almost sounded like you're 'giving me your blessing,'" she muttered blithely. Worse – she couldn't quite decide if getting Jarrus' 'okay' to make dramatic music with Ezra was a good thing or not.

"He trusts you," Kanan said, matter-of-factly. "And I've taught him to trust his instincts."

"Well as the wise teacher, tell me – what do  _your_  instincts say about me?"

He went quiet for a while, and the Mirialan almost wished she could see his eyes, just for some hint of what he was thinking. That shield went a long way in guarding his features.

"First off, let me just ask – what were the last few weeks like…? Any concerns? Trouble concentrating, maybe…?"

She barked with laughter, pinching the bridge of her nose. How to even describe those first hellish days? They were nothing short of  _torture_ , where she saw and felt ghostly reminders everywhere. Her bed had suddenly become too big, even though she liked to stretch out. The steam of her caf caressed her lips too teasingly. The torrent of water from her shower became a lover's embrace…

"You could say I was a little distracted," she carefully replied. Jarrus merely nodded, clasping his hands.

"Well, then – if you're asking my opinion? I'd say you've been living as a weapon all these years." He leaned back, mouth pulling into a tight frown. "And it doesn't suit you. Now, it's  _easy_ , no question there. You would have lived a privileged life in many ways. Power, respect, it's not hard to see why you've had so much fun with it over the years." The Jedi paused, stroking his bearded chin while he thought.

"What was the name of your comrade? The other Inquisitor you worked with so often?"

"The Fifth Brother – it's as close to a name as we knew."

"He perished on Malachor, didn't he?"

She nodded. He wasn't as fortunate as she was, recalling her stern debriefing while under the care of various medical droids. The Fifth was killed, and she was facing many weeks of convalescing.

"Do you remember what you thought when you found out?"

"I thought… how  _typical_  of him. And that was all I thought." She was starting to regret asking what his instincts of her were. At most, she expected something caustic and guarded. It would've been easy to deflect a threat with her usual charm and playfulness. But all these  _genuine questions_ were unfamiliar territory.

"And what did you think of Ezra when you first met him?"

"I thought he would make  _such_  a handsome pet." She didn't bother to lace her words with frivolity – she never shied away from telling Ezra Bridger how fitting he would look in Imperial black, especially during those first encounters. So much adorable awkwardness.

"So, it's safe to say you've seen other people as accessories, and it's a lot easier that way. We don't miss what we don't know, do we?" He leaned forward again. "But then a few weeks ago, you learned just what you might've been missing all this time. And maybe you've been left wondering if  _everything else_  was worth it, now that you know better."

She turned away, rolling her eyes and tempted to make a rude gesture, just to see if he really was blind anymore.

"This is an awful lot of romanticism and guesswork," she deflected. For those first few hellish days, she lived in a stupor, wondering if she had become influenced by some Jedi mind trick. Because how else could frenzied sex in the cold, wet and crashed escape pod be so explosively good? And then she'd remind herself that Ezra was _too pure_  to manipulate her like that.

"Jedi are good at sounding vague, remember? Oh, and metaphors. Tell me – know what happens to a creature when you starve it?"

"Please tell me you haven't passed this tradition on to Ezra," she deadpanned.

"Sorry, here I thought you were a Mirialan. If I knew you were a Mandalorian all this time I'd have just fought you for answers." She  _harrumphed_  and glared at him. "But indulge me – all this time you've been kept on the Empire's tight leash, told to follow orders and not to get too close to people. So, what happens when you starve a creature?"

"You mean besides insulting the person you're calling a 'creature,'? They get weak,  _Master Jedi_."

He nodded, ignoring the annoyed barbs in her voice.

"And what happens when you finally give them something to eat? Just that  _little bit_  to taste, so they know what's been kept from them?"

"They get aggressive," she said smartly. And then she considered it, unable to keep from thinking of herself as the same metaphorical creature. There were too many parallels not to. "No… they become ravenous. Ferocious."

"They become  _dangerous_. They lash out. They know what they  _need_  to survive. Now imagine if that creature can bat people about using just their mind and –"

"I can make the connections on my own," she remarked, rubbing her eyes. There was a bite in her voice, but it was empty. She just needed him to _shut up_  for a second so she could stop and think. There were too many thoughts and memories whizzing through her mind. Recollections of training with the Inquisitorius, watching fellow students failing tasks and being maimed or killed. And Vader standing over them, ordering them not to care – it was a weakness that would destroy them.

She was taught that her enemies were fragile. Pity them. Laugh at them. If she had the instinct to toy with them, indulge it. But  _only_ so long as it allowed her connection to the Force to thrive. And above all, never let herself consider their motives or their reasons. They were all wasted efforts that would serve only to confuse her and weaken her skills.

She had grown  _so weak_ over the last few days until her connection to Dark Side had all but abandoned her. Or maybe she was keeping it at bay, choosing to live with her passionate memories instead of the detached chill she was so used to. But not before she became _dangerous_ , savagely destroying equipment and droids, throwing technicians against walls and trying to crush that treacherous K1 unit.

She had been starving without knowing it. She had her taste and became ferocious. And then she was cut loose from her powers, arrested and processed for execution. She had been a tool, right up until she was of no use anymore.

"I was undermined from the very beginning, wasn't I?" She bowed her head and groaned softly, pinching the bridge of her nose. Jarrus didn't say anything, and she was thankful for it – she never liked being pitied, no matter the situation.

"You were probably starting to wonder if there were alternatives for you out there when the Empire went and made a choice for you."

"Not really." The Mirialan leaned back in her seat, staring up at the ceiling. She had expected a short question-and-answer session. But these revelations were… eye-opening. And _exhausting_.

"I was an Inquisitor. Trained from childhood for one purpose – which I was rather  _good at_ until I encountered you and your Padawan. But that was my life. Anything else was just… fantasy. Daydreams. And they can be rather cruel to think about sometimes, don't you think?" She sighed and waved a hand around her cell. "But you're right about one thing, you know. I didn't have much choice in what happened to me. And now I'm telling myself this is a _fresh start,_  while I sit in a Rebel jail and try not to think about how everything I knew was a convenient lie."

"Well, you're expressing yourself. That's always good."

"You are  _so_ fortunate that I cannot connect to the Force right now."

"About that…" Kanan stroked his beard again, turning all the options over in his mind. "There's only been a handful of cases where someone was strong in the Force one day and not the next. Did you consider maybe that you just don't  _want_  to use it?"

She stared at him for a long moment, torn between scathing sarcasm or demanding to talk to someone  _less crazy_  than the blind Jedi obviously was.

"For what  _possible_  reason would I have to hinder myself so much?"

"Maybe you'd like to try and be just a person for a while."

"Huh." She crossed her arms, certain now that Kanan Jarrus had gone too long without proper air. "Want to use some of that Jedi guessing and work out what I know about being a civilian? I'll give you a clue – I know  _nothing_. Unless it involves feeling adrift and alone because then I'm _nailing it_."

"Well then." He clapped and stood, pushing the chair back. She didn't hide her relief, either. The entire prophetic, metaphoric back-and-forth was draining. No – it was  _frustrating_. She didn't know if he got much out of their talk, but all she had was more questions and doubts, and this time about everything she thought she knew.

"I had something for you," he said, reaching behind his belt. "Just because… well, I've been in a few prisons over the years and wanted something to read, myself. But you may just get a bit of guidance from this." He withdrew a datapad and held it out.

She hesitated before accepting it.

"Don't be offended, but  _please_ tell me this isn't a book of Jedi wisdom."

Kanan smirked and flicked it on for her. Her eyes widened as she read the cover text, taking a firmer hold of the datapad and holding it as though it were something precious.

"Recovered from Imperial archives some time ago," he explained, but she wasn't paying attention anymore. Any fatigue she felt from their exchange was gone as she flicked through the contents.

"This is –"

"- a recorded history of Mirial and her people. Culture. Social sciences. Beliefs. It's yours now. A bit of home to take with you."

She said nothing. She didn't entirely trust herself to. There was something familiar in their strained relationship – much like Ezra's, only without the forward flirting. More biting wit than _actual_ biting. She still snickered sometimes when she remembered her favourite ID9 droid perching on his head and startling him. The Seventh Sister preferred to insult his silly ponytail and reserve her skills for the (more amusing) duels with the Padawan.

Now, after he annoyed her, commented on the relationship she shared with his pupil and threw her entire life into question, he offered up this little 'gesture of peace.' Part of her wanted to just stay frustrated with him and tell him not to let the cell door hit his blind backside on the way out… but  _what_  a peace offering it was. A collection of lost history from her race, which she knew very little of.

She was honestly quite grateful.

"You should know I'm still annoyed for that earlier bit of trickery, Jarrus," she said, though there wasn't any fire in it. The Mirialan was quiet, almost reserved. All bark and no bite – the closest she could get to say 'thank you,' especially after saying 'sorry' and 'I surrender' earlier that day. It was too many of her little rules broken already.

"I'll keep it in mind," he replied, and the amusement in his voice seemed to say that he understood. Maybe he really was attuned to the Force around him. Perhaps he was just perceptive. (For putting up with a Lasat, a Mandalorian and a con-artist Padawan, he had enough practice.) Regardless, it was as close to an understanding as she could ask from him.

"You know what Ezra asked me before he went and got himself captured?" He stopped with his hand on the cell door, turning towards her. The Mirialan quirked her brow. He knew that Ezra Bridger had her attention now – there wasn't much point in flicking her hand and saying she didn't care.

Because she did, damn it.

"He asked me if an Inquisitor had ever been one of the defectors we've received since the Rebellion was founded. And it sounded like he'd been wondering for a while, too. So don't go thinking you're all alone here, hey?"

She said nothing as he slid through the cage door and shut it again, engaging the locks before leaving her with her thoughts and her reading.


	7. New Achievements

_It goes without saying that I do not profit from this work, nor do I own the characters used within (something which I'm sure we're all grateful for.)_

_**Seduced By The Light** _

_**7\. New Achievements** _

* * *

Ezra studied himself in the mirror, stretching his cheek and dragging his razor downwards. Two days was all it took to get a dark maw lately, and he shaved the bristles away before leaving his chin and jaw at his preferred length. Then he stopped, covering his furry mandible with his hand and wondering just how he'd look if he shaved it all off. Force knew it grew back quickly enough. The razor hovered just above his chin. He debated the plan in his mind when the refresher lights began to grow dim.

' _Oh not again_ ,' he thought despairingly.

"Ezra…" It was the same rumbling voice he'd heard for two days now. "Ezra… You will turn towards the  **Dark Side** , Ezra! They've got  _yummy biscuits_!"

"Getting'  _real_   _old_ , Zeb," he muttered, rinsing his razor and returning it. If he started on the substantial grooming now, he'd only get interrupted by the grinning Lasat behind him.

"Oh, no no, jus' ah… concerned is all," Zeb insisted, leaning against the frame of the refresher. "I mean, you know just  _how romantic_  those detention blocks can be. I'm worried I'm gonna have to sit you down and give you the talk pretty soon, young man. Like that special kinda hug two people share when - "

"Hey – I got a great idea. How would you like to have trouble sitting down for a week?"

"So defensive!" The Lasat shook with barely suppressed laughter, and Ezra bared his teeth, taking his razor up again and swiping at Zeb's furry jaw. A thick tuft of purple fuzz fell to the ground, leaving an uneven patch.

"'Ere! What was that for?!"

"Figured you must be getting awful lonely, big guy," the Padawan jeered, brandishing the razor as if it were a small sword. "First step to catching someone's eye? Fix up that fur!"

"Why you bloody little - "

Hera Syndulla grabbed her steaming cup of caf before Kanan wordlessly touched her arm. She looked up, about to ask before he raised his finger and waited.

There was a massive **thump**  against the bulkhead of the Ghost, followed by the sounds of scuffling and arguing coming from the refresher on the other side. The Jedi released her arm and nodded.

"Safe now," he said, and the Twi'lek rolled her eyes.

"You know, I never knew just how I'd cope when Ezra would start dating," she murmured, cradling her mug. "Part of me was scared that he and Sabine would've become an item. That would've been terrifying." Kanan chuckled.

"Because he's a Jedi and she's a Mandalorian, right?"

Hera arched her brow. ' _No_ ,' she thought. Because the idea of two teenaged rebels sneaking in and out of each other's rooms on her ship was just painful to think of. Not to mention what would happen if it didn't work out…

"Yeah, something like that, love," she said. It was so much easier to agree with Kanan, especially if it was going to spare him the mental image of their surrogate children fooling around. "But  _this_? This was something I never would've bet on. Not in a hundred years. Are you sure he and that ex-Inquisitor are actually… well,  _involved_?"

Kanan paused, his mug halfway to his mouth. He didn't  _dare_  reveal to Hera that it had already gone past that. An angry rancor didn't compete with her when she was in 'full mother mode.' And he didn't think for one moment she'd remain quiet if she thought that Ezra and the Seventh had already had sex. Force, if not for his Jedi training he would've blanched more himself. He did  _not_  need to think of his student doing that sort of thing.

"Yeah, love," he said, swallowing the last of his caf and wrapping his hands around the cup.

"I knew she wasn't taking his whole 'hunting-you-down' thing seriously for a while now, but I didn't think they were even friends," she said. He shook his head.

"From what I've heard, Inquisitors never really learn basic social skills. Whatever their race or customs, once they were identified and brought into the fold, they were taught to live, breathe and think Imperial. Let your weapon do the talking, as it were."

"Okay, fair enough. I can understand that. Hell, I can even sympathise with her for it." Hera worried at her lip as the scuffling in the next room grew in volume. "But what does that make all the times when she's tried to fight him, or offer to teach him?"

Kanan scratched his nose with the back of his thumb.

"Honestly? For a long time now all she's done is trade easy strikes with him and walk away when he did. I think it might've just been her way of reaching out." He frowned, mulling it over. "And I'm not so sure she was even aware of it." Maybe the Seventh and Ezra had been 'friends' for a while now, he thought. But there was no chance he could delve into that mystery without a team of therapists to help him make sense of it.

"Either way" he continued. "She's starting to see the world around her from an independent viewpoint. No more place to call home or ally at her back. It's not surprising to think that her strongest bond – or her longest - is with Ezra."

"That doesn't sound very healthy," Hera mumbled, swallowing another mouthful of caf.

"Yeah – never get involved with older women," Kanan murmured, ducking as the Twi'lek swung an annoyed strike towards the back of his head.

"You knew what I meant,  _young man_ ," she said, a dangerous edge in her voice.

"Yeah, I know. But what you said? I don't think  _anything_  she's gone through has been terribly healthy. Her flirty little partnership with  _him_  – " He paused as Ezra grunted from within the refresher, followed by Zeb roaring with victory. "- well, it's probably the closest thing to normalcy she's ever had," he finished.

"Poor girl," Hera murmured.

"Tell me about it – I trained him."

"So… am I going to have to sit her down and warn her not to hurt my youngest?" There was nothing but seriousness in her tone, even as Kanan waved it away.

"I… kinda tried that already. And I think it may've offended her too," he muttered, clearing his throat. "Either way, she's trying to work out just who and what she is right now, and I think Ezra's going to go a long way with helping her. We'd be pretty silly if we  _didn't_  think they'd grow closer because of it."

"I guess you're right," Hera thought aloud, as Ezra limped out of the refresher with neon pink sparkles staining his hair.

"Refresher's free," he muttered, refusing to look at them as he made his way to his room.

"… I feel kind've sorry for that girl now," she added.

"I feel sorry for Sabine – that hair stuff of hers is expensive. Told her not to keep it in there." Kanan frowned a little, casting his awareness across the breadth of the docked freighter for any sign of the Mandalorian. "Where is she, anyway? I haven't heard her all morning."

"About that…"

* * *

 

Sabine Wren narrowed her eyes, watching the Mirialan from behind tented hands. The Rebel captive ignored her, choosing to focus on her work instead, studying the choices before her.

"It's straightforward," the Mandalorian said. "Take your time. Think it through. And when you're ready, I'll just destroy you." She tilted her head, fixing her warning gaze at the former Inquisitor. The Seventh rubbed her eyes tiredly.

"All these years I thought your people were all about action and fighting," she muttered. "Maybe you just talk until your enemy gives up…?" There was a pregnant pause between them, and Sabine showed no sign of reacting until finally, the Seventh ran out of patience. Wordlessly she moved one of her pieces on the board, something big and hulking, and expecting something positive to come of it. A second later the Mandalorian had made her move, starting a chain reaction that killed half of the avatar's and won her the game. The Dejarik board flashed and named Sabine as the winner _again_.

"My, such mastery," the Seventh remarked dryly. "You really  _must_ be getting tired of this by now." She knew she was. Over the course of two days, the young woman had visited her like this several times already. 'Meeting the whole family,' she had called it, though the Lasat or the Twi'lek had yet to visit her. At this point, she was hoping the Mandalorian would start following in their example, too. And what was keeping Bridger, anyway? Was a conjugal visit or two too much to ask…?

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far. Besides – you keep telegraphing your shots. It's a weakness that I just keep on exploiting" she chirped, resetting the board. The former Imperial rubbed her eyes again and swept her arm through the holographic markers. Another consecutive round would officially make the game 'cruel and unusual punishment,' which was hardly called for. So far, she'd answered every question they'd asked of her.

"Stop, my eyes are sore," she muttered. Her own fault for "staying up late reading again," she supposed.

"That sounds like a poor excuse if you ask me," Sabine said, but shut off the board and moved it aside regardless. "I've seen some of those old archived books – only a droid could stomach so much of that text in one go. At least Dejarik is  _fun_. Tactical simulation at its finest."

The Mirialan knew better than that. Sabine was trying to size her up, much like Kanan before her. Albeit in a subtler way.

"Well it's not like I have anything else to do in here," she deflected, looking around her cell. "Of course, if get out of here sooner than later, that might change… Are the rooms in your freighter soundproofed? I'm just curious…" Sabine paled, her mind already filling in the gaps of just what the ex-Inquisitor was suggesting. The Seventh smirked. "And there we see  _your_  weakness," she said, pointing.

She had never quite understood what relationship Ezra had forged with his Mandalorian teammate – if it was familial or platonic or whichever. But the way she leaned back and glared from beneath her colourful hair told her one thing: Sabine was happy _not_  to imagine Ezra Bridger cuddling in the dark with someone.

"How is it not a weakness for  _you too_?" she complained, unused to having such a suggestion heaped on her. Sabine's life revolved around explosives and art sticks and fighting, and that was it. And by now she suspected their prisoner knew it too. The Seventh shrugged, grinning mischievously.

"I suppose I'm just special like that, dear," she cooed, and the Mandalorian rolled her almond eyes.

"I liked you better when you were creepy."

"You mean I'm not? You know just how to wound me, sometimes. Tell me…" She nodded towards the Dejarik board, her nose scrunching as she gave it a look of disdain. "If I  _was_  creepy again, do you think you'd stop bringing your torture table around so often?"

"Ah – you mistake a Mandalorian rehabilitation device," Sabine replied sagely. "I used to visit a… political prisoner and we played games of Cubikahd. I can't say I was ever very great, but it helped broker a connection. Now, he's one of my staunchest allies."

"Fascinating," her audience replied, her tone suggesting otherwise. "And you're hoping you and I are going to become 'gal pals' as they say, Wren?"

"I do this for my own sanity," Sabine countered, making a face. "The sooner you get out of here, the sooner Ezra might stop being a complete pain in the ass."

"Well I'm  _sure_  I can try and help out in that regard," the Seventh said suggestively, baring her teeth in a knowing grin. Sabine made a face and waved her hands.

"No, stop, don't want to know," she urged. "Stop, or I'll just have _him_  arrested."

"Can he have the opposite cell from mine? It's kind of become 'our thing,' I guess you could say…"

"Oh, please shut up."

"Of course, he'll calm down once I go ahead and lay an egg inside of him…"

"I said I don't want to- wait,  **what**?"

The ex-Inquisitor grinned wolfishly.

"Told you I was still 'creepy,' dear." She watched with amusement as the Mandalorian held her palm up, silently demanding a respite while she closed her eyes and tried to rid herself of the mental images. She almost laughed – the young woman was  _very_ animated and expressive. Every gesture was complimented by paint-splattered armour and vivid hair. But above all, there was a genuine air about her that was… endearing, if she had to put a word to it.

"He means a lot to you, doesn't he?" she asked, watching Sabine's features morph from despair into a quiet seriousness.

"That Lothrat is my best friend," she said finally. "No – he's my brother. And I want to see him be happy." The Seventh arched a fine brow, peering at her carefully.

"And you think that  _I'm_  able to make him happy?"

"Honestly? I'm not sure." Sabine knew that whatever 'relationship' Ezra had with this former Inquisitor was a weird one – over the years she seemed more like an ex-girlfriend slash jilted lover than an actual threat to them. Maybe they were bound to 'take the plunge' at some point. But who was she to say if something did or didn't work for them? "Hurry up and prove you're the real deal so you can get out of here and we can find out," she finished.

"Yeah," the Seventh murmured. "Working on it."

* * *

 

Mon Mothma waited pensively, observing the Imperial Courier through the one-way glass. A politician at heart, she had lobbied fiercely in the past for diplomatic solutions. She sought peace through spoken words and gestures. But she knew when she was out of her element – the officer within the interview room swallowed a mouthful of water and hurled the glass towards the mirror in defiance. On the other side, Mon Mothma reacted as the tumbler shattered against the transparisteel before her, cringing and closing her eyes.

The Imperial merely glared and folded his hands, turning to stare back across the table he was shackled to. The mirror held, but the message was clear – he knew someone was there, watching him.

"I don't suppose we've had any luck breaking a deal with our latest 'guest,'" she murmured, turning her attention on a nearby technician. He turned the captive's datapack over in his hands, fruitlessly searching for a bypass to the DNA scanner to open it.

"I'm afraid to tamper with it too much, Ma'am," he reported. "This is a new feature – upsetting it could do almost anything. The magnetic shielding within could be concealing a transmitter or even a detonator." She frowned. Bypassing the security  _without_  his help wasn't an option then.

"And I didn't think it possible, but this new crop of cadets is ruder than the last." Kanan Jarrus stood nearby, facing the wall and the captured Imperial on the other side. "Whatever happened to the days of 'name, rank and serial number'? I feel so old-fashioned…"

"Master Jedi," she said, halting his musings. "Is there nothing that can be done with him? I feel like we're risking exposure with every minute he's on Yavin IV."

Kanan frowned, stroking his bearded chin.

"I've had no luck influencing him," he confessed. "Notice the tremors in his hands? I daresay he's ingested a stimulant. Something to keep his mind racing for a while to prevent some of our questioning methods." He was honestly surprised – he'd always imagined that an informant for the Empire would have been given a poison instead of a stim.

"I never thought I'd find myself wishing Saw Gerrera were here," Mon Mothma confessed. As a Rebel, many saw Gerrera's methods to be too extreme or even brutal, but there was no denying his effectiveness. Kanan frowned deeper, however. He wasn't so terribly fond of the idea.

"I wouldn't go  _that far_ ," he muttered. If the rumours were true, Saw had taken to using a Bor Gullet to extract information from his prisoners, which usually left their minds shattered afterwards. A cost that was too high, as far as he was concerned.

"These Imperial Couriers have always managed to slip away when we encountered them," she reminded him. "We're looking at a golden opportunity to uncover some of the Imperial spy or information network, but we need this man-" The Imperial sat up straight within the interview room, before yelling a loud obscenity and crying that he'll 'never break!' She sniffed. " – need him to cooperate."

Kanan considered for a moment, before turning and nodding back towards the base behind them.

"Can I ask how our 'other guest' has been doing?"

"You mean your former Inquisitor? Infinitely more helpful," she remarked. "It appears that throughout her career she was content to follow orders without asking questions, but I daresay anyone trained by Darth Vader would be of the same mind." Mon Mothma turned away from the mirror, watching the technician carefully look over the datapack again.

"She's not a 'wellspring' of information as we originally hoped, but she's been answering questions voluntarily and not been causing a problem for her guards. It seems as if she's spending most of her time reading."

"Glad to hear it," he remarked. As the days had passed since talking to her, he was more and more interested in seeing how she would adapt to her new environs. Most of all, he was keen to see if she would prove that Ezra was right about her. His Padawan may have been trying to downplay the situation, but it was clear that Ezra was pinning some hopes on the Seventh changing some Rebel opinions.

"This may be unorthodox? But I may have an idea about how to get our new friend here talking."

* * *

 

She read the passage again, golden eyes scanning the text. It felt like she had stared at the words so much that they had begun to lose their meaning. Beliefs weren't a subject that she had ever put much stock into. As an Inquisitor, she believed in the power of the Force and the strength of the Empire. Now that she was lost to one and forsaken by the other, the Seventh wasn't in a hurry to replace them anytime soon. There was freedom – a liberation – in not being tied to some great cause or structure. Even if the time came quickly that she was 'invited into the Rebellion fold,' she knew she was joining for herself. Grand gestures of freedom and noble acts weren't her. But having pay, food, clothes and a haven would suit her just fine.

It didn't hurt that most of her tasks would involve lashing out at the Empire in so many ways. Maybe if she'd ever bothered to pay real attention in the past, she might have seen just how successful they were. Liberating Y-wings. Bombing capital ships. Evading blockades and sabotaging factories. Sign her up for any of those fun activities.

In the back of her mind, she knew another big part of it all was waiting for her over in the Corellian VCX-100 freighter, better known as  _Ghost_. Wearing out the durasteel floors from pacing and picking fights with their grumpy astromech, according to Wren. The Seventh wondered just what would happen when she found herself with Ezra Bridger once more. Especially now that she had 'met most of the family.' Now that she'd gone along with his idea of 'swapping sides.' Of embracing her new start. Of course, if she were on probation or just kept busy, she'd probably have to put some of her plans involving private rooms on hold.

She tried to focus on her book, re-reading the passage  _again_ while she decided not to distract herself with plans for celebrating life with her Padawan 'toy boy.'

_A Mirialan's core belief in themselves are reflected on the unique, geometric facial tattoos they wear. Typically, these are added after significant accomplishments or passing trials of faith – henceforth, the larger or more diversified symbols would often signify a mature or accomplished individual of the species._

The ex-Inquisitor closed the text and reclined on her cot. It was time for a break, anyway. Otherwise, the Mandalorian would be right and she'd turn into a droid. But her tired brain wouldn't stop repeating the complicated jumble of words again and again. It wasn't entirely alien to her – in the Inquisitorius she had faith in her abilities, and her military awards reflected it. She wore them proudly. Why mar her skin with an inky needle when a neat pin of ranks did the job better?

Now, her awards were gone, along with any respect she had for them. She was back to respecting just one force in the galaxy, and that was herself. No colourful pin or uniform was going to advertise that. Besides, she already managed just fine. She was confident that every smirk and strut and sharpened word was proof enough of that. (And she liked knowing that  _some_ one found her sexier for it.)

So why was she unable to just put this last passage out of her mind? She rubbed her chin where two elegant, faded spots decorated her face. Above them were the modest dots and strokes on her cheeks. The only evidence that she was once a part of Mirialan culture before she found herself snatched away by the Empire. She had never given much thought to them – why would she? They never served many purposes to her. Now…

She supposed it was the faint traces of the Dark Side left in her. That tiny bit of greed – of  _want_  for something she didn't have. Because now it felt like the modest marks on her face were lacking. Everything she had accomplished in her life had been for the Empire, and they had rewarded her with some tiny badge for the effort. Now she was her own person. She wanted to start achieving things for  _herself_ , and she wanted to show them off too, damn it. Besides – wasn't that all part of having a fresh start? To build her catalogue of achievements from the ground up?

"Knock knock?"

She sat up with a start, once again finding her thoughts interrupted by the sudden appearance of Kanan Jarrus. She swore to herself that if she got out of her cell anytime soon, she'd attach a blasted bell on him.

"It's actually more of a ringing sound," she said, waving her hand at the cell door. "Since they're bars, and all."

"So they are. But how would you like a break from the bars for a time?"

She narrowed her eyes, swinging her legs around and planting her boots on the ground.

"I'd be suspicious, but  _listening_."

"And you'd be smart in both parts," the Jedi said, leaning against the bars of her cage. "It seems that the Rebel Alliance could use your… expertise with certain Imperial elements. And it might go a long way in winning friends and influencing people."

"A more direct man would say that you 'want me to prove my worth' by doing something like an Inquisitor would do, Master Jedi," she said carefully. But she was intrigued. By the promise of getting out of her cell. By the possibility of impressing someone worth impressing. By showing what she could do. Most of all, she was just intrigued. "Tell me more."

"What do you know about Imperial Couriers?"

She grinned broadly. It was time to go and work on her first achievement as a new woman. She'd have plenty of time later to decide how best to reflect it as a small tattoo.

* * *

 

She sat on one end of a wide table, opposite the twitching captive. She reflected how a day before she had sat there herself, answering questions and making small talk to some nameless Rebellion officer. Now she was asking the questions. The shackles were on him. The power in the room was in _her_  hands.

She leaned back and stretched her legs out, crossing one over the other and staring at him with a lazy expression.

"Tell me," she began, clasping her hands together. "… what sounds better to you? Limco? Or maybe Yivic?"

The courier's shoulder jumped, and he scratched the back of his neck. She'd never paid much attention to them before – as an Inquisitor, she had no need. Though she couldn't imagine that the effects she was seeing were from something _they_  gave him. A captured informant was no good to anyone – better to poison them and be done with it. But this one was twitching like they were coming down from a Spice high. Either he was an addict or just an idiot. ' _Or both_ ,' she mused.

"I don't know anything about either one," he grunted, rubbing his nose. "And if I did, you'd never get it out of me."

"Don't be stupid," she sighed, waving her hand in dismissal. "They're not projects; they're _names_. You see, once upon a time I worked for the Empire too. But I was an  _Inquisitor_." She paused, watching with satisfaction as began to wring his hands together. The only alien Imperials were the talented and the merciless, and everyone knew Inquisitors were both. "But now, I find myself doing what  _I_  want to do, so it's time I picked out a name… How about Shavo…?" Shavo might work – it was a good Mirialan name. Then she screwed her face up, deciding against it. Too soft on the tongue for her liking.

"How about 'traitor' instead? Or just 'dead'? Because when I'm found there won't be any hiding spot for you or your Rebel scum friends." The courier growled, but there was no mistaking the waver in his words.

She laughed, a high peal that filled the room. And he thought he had any chance of rescue? That was just ' _so cute!_ ' But she knew better than to reveal  _that_  pearl of wisdom just yet.

"Can I tell you a secret?" she asked, not quite waiting for him to answer her with an expletive. "I don't think you even  _know_  anything worthwhile."

"That's right," he quickly agreed, nodding. "Nothing. So you can give up now."

"I don't think you ever knew anything. In fact, we're probably wasting time and just keeping you here."

"Well if I did know, you'd still get nothing." He was twitching again, jumping between denial and defiance. Whatever chemicals were hopping around in his blood were steadily burning out, and she knew he'd only grow more unstable as they did. She slid her boots off the table and leaned forward, grinning darkly.

"So I think I'll just go ahead and  _kill you_  and save us all the time and effort."

Her prey baulked, eyes widening. Next door behind the one-way transparisteel, Mon Mothma's lips became a tight line.

"Do I need to have a guard intervene, Master Jarrus?" she asked tensely. Kanan frowned but shook his head.

"No, Ma'am," he murmured, watching the Mirialan tilt her head like an amused bird. "She's bluffing – at least she  _thinks_  she is. I'm not sensing any intentions there-"

"What'd I miss?"

They turned as Ezra Bridger all but jogged up beside the mirror, his focus already on the shield and the interview room on the other side. Sabine Wren came up behind him, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes.

"I couldn't keep him busy enough when he heard what was going on," she despaired, but the older Jedi just waved her concerns away.

"Your girlfriend is scaring our captive," Kanan said to Ezra, almost immediately making the youth snort and shoot a glare his way.

"What? No, she's not my - "

"Yeah, sure. Just pay attention in case things get messy."

On the other side of the screen, the Imperial tightened his grip on the edge of the table. The short chains around his wrists clinked as his leg bounced up and down. He hardly blinked, staring at the ex-Inquisitor as if she were a dangerous beast.

"You wouldn't dare," he croaked, more to himself than to her. "The Empire – "

"Is a long,  _long_  way away," she sang. "And we're not on speaking terms anymore."

"Your Rebel friends won't let you."

"My Rebel friends aren't here. I'm not sure just  _what_ you swallowed, but a smart courier would have taken their lives. You're either a drug user, or you're stupid. Either way…" She slowly stood, her alien grace accentuating every step like a hunter stalking its prey.

"We're all alone, and you're worthless to me," she hummed. "I'll say you attacked me, and how I _bravely_ fought you off. I might even get myself a medal." One long, lithe leg moved in front of the other. She gazed at him with eyes of malice – gold and black beacons that he stared at fearfully.

Unseen, Kanan held out his hand to calm the adjacent guard, who grew more anxious as the exchange went on.

"She's playing him," Ezra said, and there was a current of awe and even pride as he watched. Sabine nudged him with her elbow.

"That how she got  _you_?"

"Hey – you can't say it's not working," he deflected. "Admit it. Part of you is having fun watching her scare this guy."

Sabine didn't answer, but he had a point. If Kanan held his hand up to calm the guard, she trusted that all she was seeing was an elaborate act. And the Mandalorian wondered how much more efficient interrogations were if they were able to get a little more 'intense' with their questioning.

"I'll open the pack." Even through the filter of the speaker, the Imperial's fear was palpable. And the Seventh's laughter was mocking.

"You don't know how," she insisted. "I'm better off saving the air you're stealing."

"But I do!" he insisted, his pitch rising as she took another fluid step forward. "I do, and I can even point who the message was from."

"We'll get 'nothing out of you,' remember?" Her voice became mocking. And then it became husky and dangerous. "You're dangerous. You attacked me. I defended myself so bravely."

"I'm in chains!" He shook his wrists, rattling the shackles loudly against the table.

"Later tonight? I'm going to be enjoying celebration sex, and  _you?_ You will be dead." She sat on the edge of the table, her grin growing malevolent. "I hope you're a **screamer**."

He yelled and pulled on his cuffs, trying in vain to lean away from the Mirialan with the Sith eyes. She stood, smirking down at him as he began pleading his immediate usefulness. The ex-Inquisitor made a gesture towards the mirror, moving back to her chair and sitting as a pair of armed guards filed into the room. The courier looked up at them like they were salvation, his face red and eyes swelled as he appealed to them.

"I can open it," he was babbling as they unhooked his cuffs and pulled him towards the door. He didn't dare look away from the smirking Mirialan, trying to keep as much distance between them as they passed by her seat.

Soon she was left alone, sitting at the table she had occupied the day before. She knew she was only pretending to be on the other side of the exchange this time, but she had to face facts. It all felt… good. She didn't question it – she had been an Inquisitor, after all. Her career had depended on her being able to win an argument before it even begun. To intimidate with a glare, or silence someone with a wave of her hand. And Force knew she was endlessly amused when she frightened someone quite so much.

But this was new. This wasn't her job anymore. She wasn't scaring some civilian Togruta into giving up a suspect's hiding spot. This was lashing out at the Empire that used her. This was a chance to show off what she had to offer, and she knew she had cinched it. The 'impossible to crack' courier had withered under her glare in no time.

It was a little personal, but most of all it was satisfying. The Seventh folded her hands in front of her as she heard the door open again, expecting her own shackles to be reattached anytime soon. Instead, she was greeted by an entourage of Jarrus, Wren, the Senator Mothma who had questioned her before, and a flushed and embarrassed looking Ezra Bridger, who she favoured with a coy wink. He looked much better now that he had shaved, she thought.

"Well," the Senator began. "I can honestly say I haven't witnessed an interview quite so… unique before." She had observed other officers come and go in her time, issuing their own empty threats. But never had they been quite so believable as the ex-Inquisitor had been. "You've done the Rebellion a service, and one that won't be forgotten."

The Mirialan nodded, her gaze flickering between Mothma, Jarrus, Wren and finally back to Ezra. She saw amusement on the Mandalorian and quiet contemplation in the Jedi, but now she was left wondering what was next.

"If the time comes, I wouldn't say no to doing it all over again," she remarked, spreading her palms across the tabletop. "So… am I right in guessing it's back to my cell now?"

"Actually…" Kanan scratched a bearded cheek before motioning towards Mothma. "Considering your cooperation and services today, the Senator would like to put you on probation for a while. Give everyone a chance to see how you'd fare in the long run." Ezra gave his Master a look as Kanan struggled with the words when the Senator stepped in and relieved him.

"To be sure, you've been extraordinarily helpful during your time with us, despite it being under guard. And the Rebellion can always use good people, even if their motives are more personal than political. That said, I believe you would appreciate staying _more_  if you weren't confined to a small cell of a daytime, correct?"

The Seventh chewed her lip, looking at the faces around her. They seemed impartial or patient, except for Ezra, who hovered between anxious and alert.

"I'm not so sure I'm in the right place," she answered carefully. She was still oh so very aware that most of her 'charm' in her last test came from corrupted eyes and appearing genuinely excited at killing her target. "… but if your Rebellion is willing to give me a chance, then I accept."

The Senator nodded cordially, turning to Jarrus and asking him to 'make the preparations' before she departed. And then she was alone with the three of them. The stern Jedi, the indifferent Mandalorian and the attractive Padawan.

"I'm guessing you're going to tell me not to try and steal a ship or torture anyone?" she ventured, wondering if Jarrus was rolling his sightless eyes behind his shield.

"Something like that," he muttered. "But you can probably guess just what a probation entails. You'll be monitored and kept busy. You might be called on to do some grunt work, even. It's not all scare tactics and interrogations."

"Plus you'll have to meet the rest of the family," Sabine interjected, earning a 'glare' from Kanan and leaving her shrugging. "What? You know they'll want her placed near a team she's already familiar with – how long did you think it was going to be until Hera comes and gives her a stern talking to?"

"Yeah, well…" He rubbed the back of his neck, giving the sitting Mirialan a look. "…  _you_ might feel like you're being interrogated when it happens, so we'll try and put that off for a while. Any questions?"

"Just one. Care to point me towards the refresher? And maybe give me a 'do not disturb' sign, too."

Sabine sniggered as Kanan shrugged helplessly, wondering aloud what he had managed to bring on himself before leaving the room.

"You know, we still don't know just what to call you," the Mandalorian said.

"I'll let you know when something good comes to mind," the Seventh answered, before Wren departed after Kanan, leaving her alone with Ezra. "So – you have any ideas? What about Cimue? I think I read that somewhere in the book your 'dad' gave me…"

Ezra started, stopped, and finally couldn't keep the question down anymore.

"… celebration sex?" he asked, eyebrows knitting upwards. She shrugged.

"It's not like I was working with a script," she said offhandedly. "… what about Mirv?"

"Oh, sure," he murmured. "Mirv, the ex-Inquisitor with the perfect timing. Did you know I was  _bragging_  about just how good you were when you dropped that little pearl?"

"Are you're asking if I knew you were standing right outside, about to become  _very_  embarrassed? No – but I had a hunch. I would have bet good credits." She could already picture Wren giving the Padawan a nudge and fuelling his awkwardness. "Should've, too – I would've won."

"You…" Ezra opened and closed his mouth a few times, finally settling on pointing at the Mirialan. "You're just evil, you know that?"

Her grin widened.

"Yes, I am. You can go ahead and admit that you find it  _gorgeous_  on me." She gave Ezra a sideways look, admiring just how cleaner he looked with his cheeks and neck shaven. Force knew they  _scratched_  last time. Speaking of… "And give me a kiss, while you're at it."

The Jedi struggled to say something as she waited, favouring him with a batt of her golden eyes. Ezra gave up and descended, her grin becoming a coy smile as she grabbed the back of his neck and pressed her lips against his own, inviting his now-familiar warmth to bleed into her.


	8. Suspicions and Prejudices

_It goes without saying that I do not profit from this work, nor do I own the characters used within (something which I'm sure we're all grateful for.)_

_**Seduced By The Light** _

_**8\. Suspicions and** _ **_Prejudices_ **

* * *

Her jaw was set while the sonics assaulted her, scrubbing her slim frame clean with blasts of air. Back before she earned her sibling title and rank, she had endured these types of 'showers' before. A reasonably irritating vibration which all but evaporated the grime and dirt from a person. Efficient to be sure, but annoying. Especially to a Mirialan who, like so many other species in the galaxy, kept sensitive organs closer to the surface of their skin than most. The sonics made her teeth feel like they were humming and her head was growing steadily inflated. It was one of the few times she missed her hood, snatched from her back when she was struck down by her K1 unit and stripped of her gear.

The Seventh gradually spun, presenting her back to the sonics. Her nose wrinkled and scrunched up as she saw her reflection in the mirror opposite. It seemed like ever since that single, treacherous moment, things had been going steadily downhill for her. She almost didn't recognise the woman who glared back at her. The gentle yellow pigment of her flesh looked sickly in the dim lighting. The scar that ran across her midsection from Maul's attack seemed that much thicker and brighter, casting a shadow on her stomach. Her hair had grown out messily and looked a little wispy in places, sticking out above her ears and more extended than she preferred. The subtle lines on her forehead and face even seemed more prominent. She felt _older_. Dark circles ringed her eyes, further accentuating the blazing black and gold corruption in her pupils.

A headache. That's what the entire ordeal felt like, really. A full week had passed since Jarrus and the Senator in white so _graciously_  handed her a probation. A week of sharp orders and cold stares. It never bothered her, really. She was used to some infamy, even striding the decks of a polished Star Destroyer. She was revered with awe and fear, and that's how she  _liked it_. But among these Rebels, she was feared as much as she was detested. If she reported for a duty, she was met with hesitance. Most of the people she dealt with were fossils. People who had lost everything thanks to people _like her_ , and who had no choice but to throw their lot in with the Alliance. The irony that she was in the same position wasn't lost on her, not that she cared to point it out.

Her 'probation' was agonising. No day had stretched on quite so much as when, unwilling to give her anything solid to do, the foremen just directed her towards scores of junk and broken equipment for sorting. Droid's work, really, but she didn't have much say in the matter. The Seventh figured she ought to get used to it, too – every bay she entered and hallway she passed was met with stares and whispers. It wasn't hard to guess their problem. Even if most of them hadn't met her personally as an Inquisitor, scuttlebutt had done its job. There wasn't a military station in the galaxy that didn't operate like an academy dormitory, it seemed.

One pilot even sidled up to her while she was sorting her current pile of junk. She almost felt the leer on her backside as he leaned against the durasteel bench, inviting her to tour the new U-Wing he'd been assigned to. The Seventh wiped her greasy hands on a rag and slowly turned, her grin slowly growing as her sparkling Sith eyes bored holes into him.

"I'd love to," she said, even as he backed away, fright etching into his features. "I hear pilots have such vibrant souls… They taste  _delicious_."

The rumour that Inquisitors devoured their victims was laughable, but who was she to dispel it so soon? And her humour was rewarded with space for a day. Nobody dared approach her, confident that the evil Mirialan would drag them off to a dark corner and swallow whatever energy she could take from them. It was a nice change of pace. Even without the familiar ebbs and flows of the Force, there was no hiding from the hostility of the equipment bay. Too many eyes watched her with suspicion. Too many hands hovered near blasters, itching for an excuse.

She was left alone to her own devices, sorting through piles of wires and junk and oil and telling herself that it was precisely what she wanted. The angry eyes kept their distance. The fossils never dared to approach her. She sorted salvageable tech from melted slag until it grew dark and she slid back to the room she was occupying.

Ezra visited her on the fifth day, finally able to tear himself away from sparing and meditations and blaster practice. She immediately dragged him into the nearest supply room, sealing it shut and attacking him.  _He_  was the reason she was here. Him and his blasted kisses and damned Loth-cat eyes and his kriffing  _pleading_  to surrender herself. She threw it all back at him, yanking her greasy fingers through his hair and forcing his mouth down against her throat. She didn't want any romanticism or sweet whispers. She just had an aching  _need_ to feel something that wasn't frustration or hatred directed at her. She needed that connection that he sparked a month before while they were huddled together in their cold cave. Something warm and electric to drive away her headache and bitterness.

" _Bite me_ ," she had hissed at him, arching back when she finally,  _blessedly_ felt the Jedi's teeth sink into her shoulder. The irony, once more, was not lost on her. A mere month before her body demanded that _she_  bite  _him_ , to make him hers and seal his place at her side. To ensure whatever delightful raptures he was pushing her towards would always belong to her. And now she was clenching her body and mewling, wanting more fire and attention to keep her troubles away.

It was so  _easy_ to just lose herself in it all. To pretend like she wasn't stuck in some Rebel base in a steaming jungle. To allow him to cradle her close and seduce her, humming as he moved lower and pulled her dirty shirt open. The Mirialan trembled as his tongue swirled around a tightened nipple before the world around her fell away in a euphoric haze.

 **Knock knock**.

She came back to herself with a start. The cosy, dark storage room became the old refresher, suddenly feeling much too cold now that the sonics had powered down. She cast a look back towards the door, barking a short "give me a moment!" before she padded naked towards the bench. There was no use grumbling about it. With her luck, whoever was waiting their turn would probably hear her and override the lock, catching her while she yanked on her trousers and boots. And then so much good behaviour would be wasted when she finished beating them to death…

The Seventh shook her head, gazing tiredly at the mirror across from her. The dark bruise on her neck stood out against her primrose flesh. The only decent memory she had made for herself since walking free from her cell. She rubbed her thumb across the tender skin, buttoning up her collar and pulling Ezra's heavy tan coat around her shoulders. It was time to get back to reality, it seemed.

"It's all yours," she said smoothly, not waiting for Kallus to give her an answer before she slipped past with as much grace as her second-hand clothes could afford. She managed to stride a full three paces before he sidled up to her, the very picture of professional efficiency in his pressed suit.

"Actually I've come to address you, Miss…?"

"Still working on that," she said tersely, pleasantly surprised that the former special agent hadn't fallen on old habits and referred to her as 'Miss Inquisitor.'

"Well, it would do you well to work a little harder," he said carefully, and she wondered if it were possible for him to sense how annoyed she was at her current 'work.' "It's been decided that your probationary period should be brought to an abrupt end. You'll need a new name to go with your rank soon, Ensign."

She stopped, inhaling slowly and trying not to feel too  _fed up_ with hearing such a lowly rank assigned to her. But already she was skipping past that detail – her suspicions raised at how quickly she had climbed the first rung of the military ladder. Especially when that very morning she was still regarded as the 'frightening ex-Inquisitor slash ex-prisoner.'

"You know, I find it rather hard to accept that Rebel leaders have been so quick to warm up to me," she muttered. Almost the entire week had passed, and she had hardly seen any of them, but she suspected Kallus was wise enough to look past her dig for clarity.

"And yet, here we are," he said in a no-nonsense tone. "With you as a member of the Alliance to restore the Republic, Miss Ensign. Your time is your own, now. But make of it what you will – we all get called upon for an assignment eventually. Why not go and celebrate?" And she watched as he turned and marched away, glaring at his retreating form. She didn't especially hold any ill will towards him. Not even when she was a Jedi hunter, and his treasons were discovered could she bring herself to care. But now, it almost felt like every courteous nod he received, and unimpeded march along the halls was a slap in the face to her. A little reminder that the former ISB had risked everything to feed the Rebels information, while she waited until she had nothing to lose before surrendering.

No - that wasn't quite right. She felt like she had something to lose, still. Otherwise, she'd be lying low on some backwater Outer Rim world, changing her looks and preying on the stupid to stay alive. And the Alliance wasn't so much different from the Empire – the scenery was slathered in mottled brown and green, and their pilots decked in orange, but the rest was the same.

More little lies she told herself to make her feel more comfortable. Her situation was still less than ideal. A new rank wouldn't stop the suspicious glares, nor would it afford her any luxuries.

"I'll celebrate when I get access to some hot water," she seethed to herself, stomping off towards the equipment bay once more. The Mirialan touched the familiar bruise on her neck when she was sure nobody was around. For now, that was all she had going for her. Knowing that from here, her lot in life could only start to get better and that there would be warm respites scattered throughout with her Padawan lover.

Maybe for now she could make do with salvaging a blaster or some other sidearm amongst all the scrap. If they expected her to serve her meagre new rank, she'd be damned if she'd be unarmed.

* * *

 

Zeb clasped his furry hands together, watching the Imperial carefully. He wasn't naïve – he knew he was mostly here for show. The Courier sitting opposite tugged his chains and trembled, twitching now and again as if someone unseen was poking him with something sharp. Whatever blasted stim he had self-medicated with was still doing a number on his insides. Then again, Zeb wondered, it probably _was_  some toxin that was meant to strangle his heart and instead had scrambled his thoughts.

"Tell us again about your assignment," the Officer beside him asked, infinitely patient as the Imperial sucked his teeth and mumbled the same answer he had given a dozen times before: take the parcel, deliver the parcel.  
"Yes, but to  _who_?"

"Get it safe. First squadron I find."

Zeb ducked his head behind his hands and rolled his eyes. He wanted to  _act_  – to point out that the dimwit Courier had pretty much fallen into the laps of a  **Rebel**  squadron. He wanted to growl and flail and threaten to turn him into a pelt if he didn't start giving them some real answers. Wasn't that the whole point of him sitting in on these things? To look big and mean and scary!

As if sensing his frustration, the Officer pressed a placating hand on the Lasat's arm, throwing him a meaningful look before turning back to the Imperial and slowly repeating himself.

Zeb threw a dirty look at the one-way mirror. He knew that if he cut loose, then the wacko would start babbling and pulling at his chains and they'd have to start over again tomorrow. And all he had to do was sit there and growl a question of his own every so often. He was the 'bad cop.' The intimidation factor. The oh so subtle reminder that there were scary people about Yavin base, and just maybe a certain Mirialan could be invited back in if need be.

On the other side of the transparisteel, General Draven watched passively. Kanan stood beside him, quietly irked that the Rebel leader was so closed off and hard to read, but quiet none the less.

"No luck with extracting anything useful from our captive, Jarrus?" the General asked, and the Jedi shook his head.

"His mind is a jumble, sir. We've got a better chance of learning something from checking his blood, and even those have come back relatively clean." It was unnerving to think that the Empire had perhaps found a new poison that was so untraceable if that was even the same thing they were looking at. But outside of some severe mental manipulation, there wasn't much else to explain it.

"Your man Orrelios does a good job of looking mean, I must say. But I think we're burning time we don't have with this one. Maybe it's time to let him off the leash a little bit…"

"With respect, General, Zeb doesn't  _have_  a leash," Kanan deflected, privately recalling how much more dangerous Zeb was to Ezra with Sabine's expensive hair glitter. "If you're hoping to get answers sooner, we might stand a better chance of bringing our reformed Inquisitor back in on –"

"Absolutely not," Draven interrupted, crossing his arms. "So much as mention her to the prisoner, and he starts to fall apart. And I can't say I blame him, either." His mouth turned downwards at the thought of the Seventh Sister tucked away in Yavin base. Behind him, he missed Kanan copying his frown.

"General, I understand you're hesitant, but she's proven useful and cooperative. Mon Mothma's already acknowledged her probation period finishing with a military rank."

"Master Jedi, I am no stranger to the shady acts of warfare. And if roles were reversed, you can be assured an agent like your wayward Inquisitor would be  _perfect_  to use as an infiltrator." The General straightened as the door behind them slid open, allowing a tall, pitch black droid to stride in.

"Sir, Captain Andor is awaiting your instructions in the next debriefing room," it reported, earning a nod of satisfaction.

"Thank you, Kay-Two. Tell Cassian I'll be there momentarily." The General waited as the gaunt K2 unit departed, sparing a final look at the window and giving the Jedi a look he knew he wouldn't see.  
"Get whatever intel you can, Jarrus," he urged before leaving.

Kanan frowned farther, waiting for the door to seal before bowing his head.

"I don't like our Ensign's chances, running around on her own here," he murmured.

"You don't think the General will try to have her assassinated, do you?" Hera stepped out from behind a console, glancing up at Kanan and into the room where the interrogation continued.

"I think Draven's paranoid. He's the kind of man who sees the value in wet work missions, and he sees himself filling that role for the Rebellion."

"You mean the kind who tell themselves someone has to do it?" She let the question hang in the air as Kanan softly exhaled. He knew she was asking more than one thing, really.

" _The Ghost_ is your command, Hera," he said quietly. The Twi'lek nodded and made to leave the room, bringing her communicator up and whispering for Chopper. He waited until he was alone again, sensing the jittery buzz hanging around the Courier and Zeb's overall boredom with the entire ordeal.

"Try pressing him about the parcel's origin, Zeb," he radioed, watching the Lasat's ear twitch from the small microphone he wore. Zeb leaned forward, and the Imperial leaned back, already intimidated by the sudden interest his larger, furrier interrogator had.

"Tell me about Naboo, eh?"

Kanan frowned as the Courier suddenly stalled, growing composed. The twitches seemed to stop, even as he slumped down into his chair. It was like watching the week-long stimulant finally subsiding, leaving an empty husk in its wake.

"You mean Theed?" he asked, and the Officer beside Zeb watched in fascination as the Imperial began talking like a different person, describing the meeting in Naboo's capital city before receiving the datapack.

* * *

 

If the Seventh thought she would get any peace and quiet amongst the debris, she was damned again. By the time she wrung her greasy rag out for the third time, her work was interrupted by a series of garbled droid sounds. She spared an annoyed glance over her shoulder before an  _ancient_  astromech wheeled around the corner of her private junk pile, bleeping incoherently. If the strange, random occurrence wasn't enough, the droid then seemed to shrink behind her workbench, as if it were hiding.

"I can see why they mistook you for trash," she said, but the droid ignored her in favour of watching the corner it came from. And then it wobbled and bleeped as another figure appeared – a Twi'lek, wrench in hand and a look of sheer frustration etched in her pretty features.

"Cee-One-Ten-Pee!" she shouted. "Get out of there this instance."

C1-10P decided to let loose a chorus of bleeps and warbles, and the newcomer almost looked scandalised at whatever the droid had managed to trill off in its unique language. And the Seventh could only frown, glancing from the old boxy astromech to the Twi'lek and back. She couldn't shake the sudden sensation that she was caught in the middle of some divine comedy, or even a family tiff. And she was fairly sure she didn't want to be found in _either_.

"Don't let me interrupt you two," she said, raising her oil-stained hands in surrender and stepping out from between them. But her current streak of luck wasn't kind, and she knew she wouldn't get away when the Twi'lek narrowed her eyes and watched her retreat from the workbench.

"I was wondering when I'd get a chance to meet you, you know," she announced, and the Mirialan shut her eyes and tried not to show her bitter frustration. "You're our guest from –"

"From the big, bad Empire, yes," she sniffed, knowing she wasn't about to get away. Kallus was right – she'd put it off long enough. "The  _former_  Seventh Sister of the Inquisitorious. I'm afraid I'm in between names, so it's the best I can offer you for now, General."

Hera Syndulla made an 'oh' shape with her mouth before nodding. The Twi'lek captain seemed unprepared for the bite, but surprised the Seventh when she leaned against the workbench and offered her a lopsided smile.

"Seems like we've gone and skipped the introductions, then," she offered meekly. It threw her off. The Seventh had long suspected that Syndulla was stubborn or scathing – Force knew she had to have  _some_  reinforced backbone to deal with Jarrus and Wren and Ezra all the time. And the no-nonsense reputation that she had built for herself among the Rebels was impossible to ignore.

"Well, I've met  _this one_  before," she said, nodding towards the stumpy old droid that warbled at her. "And I'm pretty sure you've heard lots of things about me by now."

"I have." The Twi'lek lifted a piece of equipment up and turned it over, pulling a few loose wires free and dropping them into the pile of scrap that had gathered."I've heard bits and pieces over the years. Hard not to. But lately, I'm hearing about how you've been helping Intelligence with their questions. You've been following orders and pitching in. Not to mention you've brought Ezra home when we thought we'd lost him."

The Seventh looked away, almost wishing that she was experiencing the interrogation she had been expecting for so long now. She could handle some things infinitely easier than others. Criticism and caution? Open suspicion? Warnings to stay away from the youngest member of the Ghost crew? She could handle all of those laughing, especially the last one. But it was hard to think that Syndulla's voice was nothing less than friendly and sincere. And it left her uneasy.

"Well, it's not like I could try and take him home with me and offer to train him anymore," she said, unable to just bring herself to say 'oh, it was nothing.' But all that got was a look of understanding and a nod as the Twi'lek polished the stripped metal.

"It may sound obvious, but the Empire is rather good at taking people's homes. Even if they were already part of them."

Once again she was struck quiet, wondering when the questions would begin. Syndulla was a General while she was a suspicious character. For a week now she had expected Hera to seek her out for a private interview, demanding to know what secret, sinister plans she had for the Rebellion and her crew and Ezra Bridger. And if she weren't sure the Twi'lek would have her killed and disposed of, she'd have probably said she planned to kidnap the Padawan and write her non-existent name across his left buttock every evening.

"Well, now," she said, pulling a filthy stool closer and sitting on the edge. "Here I was so sure you were going to size me up and let me know you've got your eye on me."

Syndulla smiled warily and set the cleaned tech down, rubbing her hands together.

"I've been around Yavin Base awhile now – seems to me everyone else is doing that already. Did you want me to join in?"

The former Inquisitor scoffed, turning away from the other woman and noticing for the first time that the droid was diligently sifting through her pile of scrap. Probably looking for something to torture somebody with, the way Ezra and Wren talked about him.

"So, here's the thing." She cast a wry look at the Twi'lek, deciding to test once and for all if fortune truly favoured the bold. "I'm guessing by now Jarrus and Wren have told you that Ezra and I share a 'friendship.' Well, you can thank _him_ for me being here because I was this close to stealing a shuttle of my own and making a go of it in the Outer Rim. Instead –"

She gestured towards the mess around them, the debris of salvage seeming to create a barrier between herself and the rest of the bay. It didn't escape her attention that other Rebels were doing their best to isolate her, and she didn't think Syndulla would miss it, either.

"- I'm wearing clothes that just won't get clean no matter what I try. At least half of the people here are frightened of me, which I really don't mind if I'm honest. The other half are probably plotting to smother me in my sleep, however." The Seventh watched Chopper waddle about on his mismatched legs, wondering if the notorious astromech was plotting to space her at the first opportunity.

"I'm tired and cranky and have a headache. I've lost my connection to the Force, which is akin to losing a  _limb_ , I assure you. And I'm telling myself that one day everything's going to be better and I'll have a whole galaxy to find my place in. Until then, I have this old coat and a familiar face who seems to think I'm tough and attractive." She stopped, realising too late that her confrontation was more of a torrent of emotional venting.

What surprised her was just how easy it was to do it. She had always believed in sharing these little private thoughts made you open and weak, especially when your fellow Inquisitors wouldn't hesitate to use it against you. But the stories of the always-serious Hera Syndulla must have been exaggerated because all she saw was a look of patience etched in the Twi'lek's features. She sniffed and looked down at her greasy hands, unable to bring herself to look at her.

"So, at the risk of shooting myself in the foot by annoying a General, don't warn me to stay away from your kid. I'm starting to think he's all I've really got around here." She looked away, refusing to say 'please' and still feeling so raw and exposed by the confession. It reminded her of that stray thought from a month before, huddled together with Ezra in their crashed escape pod. Running her fingers over his bearded chin as he trembled and climaxed inside her and quietly thinking how  _love_ ly it would be if they weren't enemies. If she belonged to him and he belonged to her.

Self-indulgent wishes, but they were  **her** private thoughts. And now she'd all but quietly begged Bridger's mother figure to let her see him. If the droid were planning on immolating her with a starfighter's engines, now would surely be the time.

"Ezra's part of my crew," Hera said, speaking up and breaking a silence that was starting to feel uncomfortably long. "He's a grown man and free to come and go as he sees fit. However," Her tone changed to a serious one as she leaned forward, pushing herself away from the workbench. "I don't need to tell you that his safety, and that of this Rebellion, will always be my top priority."

"I'm not your enemy," the Seventh defended herself, but Syndulla held up a hand to silence her.

"I  _know_  you're not. All these years now, it would've been pretty clear if you were really trying to fight us or not." The Twi'lek stepped closer, forcing herself into the Mirialan's field of view and watching her pensively. Then, slowly, her face softened.

"What I meant to say was I don't need to tell you because I think you're already putting Ezra's safety first. I mean… you said it yourself. You could've gone anywhere and done anything. Instead, you're sorting through this junk and co-operating, all because he asked you too." She gave a wave at the pile behind her, unknowingly gesturing towards Chopper who bleeped in angry tones that were ignored by both women.

"Did you know he kept nodding at other Stormtroopers while he was disguised?" the Seventh smirked, and Hera rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"Can't say it surprises me. Told him to stop, I'm guessing?"

"Told him he wasn't important enough to get a salute back."

"Sounds like you make quite the pair."

They both chuckled, the Mirialan ducking her head as the Twi'lek regarded her carefully for a moment.

"They've finished analysing the data from that Courier you ah,  _convinced_ , I guess. Anyway…" Her lekku bounced as she shrugged. "Seems that there have been some discrete operations going on in the Mid Rim that warrants investigating. Maybe a bit of groundwork. A good opportunity to get out of the jungle for a while and see if Rebel field work is more fun than salvaging duty. Wanna come?"

The Seventh turned and arched her brow, watching her steadily for a moment.  
"Just like that?"

"Well, if you want you could stay here," she said flippantly, gesturing towards the heap of salvage. "You're free to say no and weather the glares you're no doubt getting. And I'm sure if there's any danger on our little venture, Ezra will stop pouting and get his head in the game. Probably." She didn't miss the Mirialan's eyes narrowing, nor the various 'what if's' that were firing off behind her façade either.

"Or you can join Spectre group and see if you don't function better with a smaller cell rather than heaped in with the rest of the rank and file." Hera pursed her lips. In truth, the more Kanan revealed about the Inquisitorius, the more she was tempted to extend an olive branch to their latest recruit. Not to mention that the overall tension in Yavin base regarding her presence was getting out of hand. Draven wasn't the only paranoid member, after all. Getting her out and into the field would give some of their more anxious members some breathing room and the Seventh herself a chance to find her place with their Rebels. And stars above, Ezra would just be a _pain_  if they left her behind.

"Say yes, already, so I can make it official, and we can push through some extra supplies for another agent in the field. If you want we'll tell everyone later that you were quite cool about the whole thing, dear."

The former Inquisitor snorted, suddenly painfully aware that Ezra's captain and mother-figure had gone and called her 'dear.'

"Doesn't it bother you a bit that I'm a nameless ex-Imperial who's involved with your youngest crew member?" she ventured, and Syndulla rolled her eyes.

"On my ship, it's  _my_ word that's law. Give me a good reason to worry, and you'll find yourself floating to the nearest planet in a survival suit. Keep that in mind, and we'll get along _splendidly_." The Twi'lek dusted her hands off on a spare rag and threw it across to the newly-minted Ensign.  
"As for the name, well, if you're going to be working with us this time around, I suppose we'll just have to call you Spectre Seven."

The Mirialan caught the rag and wrung her dirty hands in it, smirking.

"Well, good news – no name but I've got the number part, already."

* * *

 

General Draven watched the last of the supplies being loaded onto Syndulla's freighter, along with the other members of the Spectre group not already on board. The Mandalorian, Wren, standing out amongst the supplies with her painted armour and rose-gold hair colour. Then the cantankerous droid of theirs, long past its expiration date. And finally, the Mirialan Ensign, ambling up the catwalk with her alien graces.

He didn't realise he was holding his breath until the hatch sealed. He disliked a loose end, but not as much as a dangerous, Sith-eyed agent it seemed. And if Syndulla was willing to take the base's least-popular operative – he still refused to think of her as a member of the Rebellion – then she was welcome to.

" _Ghost_  to control," the radio crackled. "Resupply complete and all hands aboard. Request permission to take off."

"Granted,  _Ghost_ ," he said smartly. "And good hunting." He thumbed off the radio as the hexagonal freighter lifted off and made a smooth ascent through Yavin IV's tree line. He shook his head. A standard reconnaissance into an unknown Imperial link on a Mid Rim world. That's all it was. There was no need to concern himself too much, he thought.

In the bowels of the base, the captive Courier sat on the edge of his bunk, thoughts adrift. It was done. The seed had been planted. Send them to Naboo – that's what the red wanted, wasn't it? The red was so very, very insistent about it. Lead them to Theed. Convince them of the need to investigate.

What was the other thing he had to do…? There was something else, he thought. Some final task when he was sure he had accomplished the other one.

He wracked his mind to think, completely unaware that he had been standing on his bunk now for minutes on end. He didn't notice that he had tied the meagre sheet he was provided with around the bars overhead.

The Courier was still trying to remember his final instruction as he tightened the home-made noose around his neck and stepped off the bunk.

* * *

_AN: I now know the meaning of the phrase laborous - I must've re-written this entire chapter three times before being satisfied with it. Originally our Inquisitor would've been met with a much more understanding, welcoming Rebellion, having a smooth probation. And what's the fun in that? Besides, don't forget that she's been a bad girl. In fiction, bad people tend to get some must-deserved karma._


	9. Attention to Detail

_It goes without saying that I do not profit from this work, nor do I own the characters used within (something which I'm sure we're all grateful for.)_

_**Seduced By The Light** _

_**9\. Attention to Detail** _

* * *

"Zeb, hit the lights for me. Chop?" Hera Syndulla cocked her hip, lekku bouncing as the furry Lasat thumped a switch and the ship's astromech unit warbled and waddled closer to the Dejarik board. The  _Ghost's_ rec room was reduced to emergency lighting for a second before Chopper worked his magic. A bright, earthy globe materialised above the holographic table, casting a luminescent light across the collection of Spectres.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she continued, gesturing towards the display. "I give you the planet of Naboo."

"Wow," Ezra murmured, sitting a little more to attention. "It looks pretty."

"Pretty? Try idyllic," Sabine cut in, waving a hand towards the light projection. "Naboo's a natural paradise. It's all old art and architecture, forests, oceans…" She trailed off as Ezra's thick eyebrow arched. "Honestly, how do you now know about this place?"

"Why would I?" he asked blandly, prompting the Mandalorian to hold her hands up in surrender. Behind them both, their newest crewmate watched with bemusement.

"I'm just saying, this place has a _history_. You know Naboo is where our old 'friend' Maul was first thought to be killed, right?"

Ezra's eyes went saucer wide before the Seventh gently snorted and rolled her eyes. Several pairs of eyes turned her way as the Mirialan leaned her slender frame against the bulkhead and gestured towards Sabine.

"You could say he lost the use of his legs," she added darkly. From his corner of the booth, Zeb tried and failed to stifle his chuckle as Sabine breathed a quiet "oh, savage" to herself. Maybe settling in wouldn't be such a trifle, after all, the Seventh thought.

"That might just be a nasty understatement," Kanan murmured from his seat, the blind Jedi having stayed quiet and pensive since before the lights went out. "Master Obi-Wan faced a powerful enemy and cut him in half."

"Master Kenobi did that?" Ezra asked, clearly intrigued. But where Kanan just nodded, it was the Lasat who drew a furry claw across his own midsection with a sick noise, mimicking Maul's bisection.

"As I was saying,  _boys_ ," Hera interrupted, her hands on her hips before nodding towards the hologram. But it wasn't to be.

"Wait, wait," Ezra pressed. "If Maul went through all that on Naboo, why is this place still pretty and not… you know, a pile of ashes?"

"Because he failed his Master," Kanan said. "Sith's deal in absolutes like that, Ezra." But behind them all, the ex-Inquisitor's mouth became a tight line. She knew that loyalty in the Empire was just a word – she herself had often watched with glee as a fellow Sibling failed some task and was punished for it. After all, it only made her look better for it. And it was  _fun_ , too.

Until it came full circle, that is, and she found herself escaping execution and throwing in with a band of terrorists. Life had a sense of humour like that.

"You're half right," Hera added. "Naboo is in a unique position. Spectre Seven?" She looked towards the brooding Mirialan, followed by the other members of her crew in giving her their full attention. She dwelled on it all for a fraction of a moment. How different her new life was going to be, now that it involved working with a crew and going on these little excursions. She couldn't quite bring herself to care just yet about the freedom of the galaxy, or hope and liberty and all those flowery words.

When it came to harbouring a grudge, though, she was second to none. If there were a chance to blow up an Imperial factory of K1 droids too, she'd be the first to volunteer. Besides, she thought, sparing a glance down at the handsome features of one Ezra Bridger. The moniker of 'Spectre Seven' was starting to grow on her.

"Naboo," she began, straightening up. "Is the home planet of Emperor Palpatine."

Ezra's eyes once again grew wide, and his bristly jaw dropped open. She smirked. Oh, it would have been so easy to just pinch that scarred cheek and coo at him.

"The Emperor comes from  _there_?" he asked, pointing at the hologram again. "Like,  _the Emperor_? The twisted up little guy who's like, the definition of bad?" He looked around at his fellow Spectres, where Sabine and Zeb shrugged, apparently not as surprised to hear he had come from such a natural paradise.

"We can't all be born in the depths of Hell," the Seventh teased, leaning down while her golden eyes twinkled with wicked mirth.

"Can we please focus, children?" Hera once again had her arms crossed, frustrated at how easily a flabbergasted crew member was derailing her briefing. "You'd be forgiven for not knowing, Ezra – the Naboo don't exactly go and advertise it, as you can imagine. Still, they enjoy what could be called a 'relative peace' on their planet." She pointed to a few different landmasses on the projection, leaving little flags whenever she broke the light with her finger.

"They have a small Imperial presence established across the globe, and the Emperor has ordered the entire planet to be demilitarised. Any rebellion would be crushed. Worse, the Empire might consider it a betrayal."

"And then the planet  _just might_  be reduced to ashes," Kanan finished soberly.

"So why in the world are we going there, then?" Sabine asked, echoing the thoughts around her. Hera gave Chopper a nudge, prompting the astromech to warble and adjust the display. The planet spun, grew, and levelled out, warping to display a sweeping city.

"This is the capital, Theed," she explained, waving towards elegant structures that seemed to marry the natural landscape around them. "Thanks to some  _creative convincing_ …" Hera paused long enough to fire a wry look between both Zeb and the former Inquisitor. The Lasat beamed and folded his hands behind his head, all while the Mirialan's corrupt gaze was floating between Ezra and the display.

"… we have reason to believe that there may be some deep level projects being conducted. Now, we're not sure what to expect –"  
"Hard to work out what that guy was bleedin' on about in the end…" Zeb interrupted, earning another annoyed look.

"Regardless, any information with Courier level security cannot be ignored. At the same time, we have a chance to show the Naboo that the Rebellion is willing to do whatever it takes to fight back against the Empire." Hera nodded at Chopper, who wordlessly changed the hologram back to the rotating globe of the planet.

"These people have been held hostage for a long time. If not from the Imperial presence, then the promise of what could happen to them if they turned on them. We believe that they're hoping they can stay neutral and hold out for a safe outcome." Hera's hands returned to her hips as she frowned, looking amongst the gathered rebels.

"We all know that never ends well. So, our mission is two-fold. We confirm whatever Imperial activity is going on, and we try and reach out to Theed's leadership in favour of the Alliance."

"Just how likely is that going to be?" Sabine asked.

"Ideally? It's hard to say. Naboo has no military, no security. Even their airborne squadrons were dismantled at the end of the Republic. But we're not about to turn back any help. Produce, supplies, information, volunteers… We'll take what we can get. Spectre One?"

Kanan pushed himself up from his seat, giving the barest of motions with his hand before the lights came back on, the switch flicked with a mental push.

"Naboo's Imperial presence is thin, but that's not to say they're not vigilant," he began, taking a position beside Hera. "To avoid drawing attention to ourselves, we'll be splitting into groups when we reach the surface. Hera and I will attempt to reach out to the Naboo government, whereas the rest of you will be investigating possible Imperial points of interest." The blast shield covering his sightless eyes did nothing to hide the warning 'look' he sent towards Sabine and Zeb.

"And if you  _do_  find something, document it and fall back – we won't be winning any hearts or minds if we're blowing things up. Under –  _ow_!" He was cut off as the bulky old astromech suddenly charged him, striking Kanan's leg and warbling loud and fast.

"Sorry, Chop," Hera said, patting the droid's boxy dome. "We'll need you to stay with the  _Ghost_  and coordinate. And keep a channel open for any Alliance transmissions too, okay?"

Chopper's squat body seemed to sink, rumbling with an electronic sigh. The pair of claws that approximated its hands swung up and down in a show of bitter defeat, and the cantankerous droid rolled away, cursing all the while in its language. Hera pinched the bridge of her petite nose and dismissed the assembled crew before hurrying along afterwards.

"Do you need anything to get ready?" Ezra asked, glancing up from his seat as the rest went about their duties. The ex-Inquisitor favoured him with an amused smirk, toying with the idea of teasing him a little bit. ' _What, here and now? So very naughty…_ ' But she decided against it, nodding instead and shifting her weight from one lean leg to the other.

"Think you could go and find me something to cover these striking beauties?" she asked, gesturing towards the inky depths of her eyes. "Not everybody has the same fetishes as you, you know…" And, predictably, Bridger favoured her with an amusing attempt to cough and flick his hand, insisting that she was crazy if she thought her literal ' _evil eyes'_  were all that and more. But he still stretched out of his chair and left to find her something suitable. Who said he would  _never_  be an obedient little servant of hers, after all?

Left alone, she remained standing near the bulkhead, staring off into the darkened hall Ezra departed through while mulling over everything. It all seemed like exercises she had been through in the past, striding along alien worlds and rooting out insurgency cells. She was trading a cadre of Stormtroopers for stealth, but little else. It was, frankly, a tactically sound operation. Before claiming a planet, you had to clean out the rat's nests, after all.

If she had any real issue with the plan, it was how she couldn't bring herself to  _care_. She had seen worlds like Naboo before. Antiquated or modern, natural or developed, they were all content to bow down to the Empire (and she herself, once,) quickly enough. She didn't doubt that many of the crawling sycophants she dealt with over time would spit and curse her when they were left alone. But when summoned, they would be all too willing to wring their hands and ooze on about how nothing was too much effort for the Empire.

The galaxy was full of people. Some were interesting, daring to challenge and push back, like Ezra Bridger and the rest of Syndulla's crew. Others were willing to try when it counted, like so many members of the Alliance, or the rare Imperial soldier. But so many,  _many_ more were ready to become faceless statistics. To bend at the very hint of pressure.

She pushed herself away from the wall, moving deeper into the guts of the freighter. She agreed that it was a good plan that Syndulla and Jarrus had made, with sound merit and actions. She was even rather content to think of waltzing around the Emperor's homeworld with Ezra, the Mandalorian and the Lasat. She was a fighter. An agent of action. But she wasn't going to hold her breath for the 'old married couple' of the crew and their plan to rally others. People like the Naboo were cowards, and she had little time for them.

It was all just another stepping stone to getting somewhere better. And she was willing to do the job necessary to get there. But first…

The Seventh rapped on the door to Wren's quarters, waiting with a bored look until it opened a crack. The Mandalorian's almond eyes widened as she peered out, before narrowing as the ex-Imperial smiled sweetly.

"I'm here to collect on a debt, dear Wren," she said in a honeyed voice. "For all those blasted games of Dejarik…" The door opened further, and Sabine Wren crossed her arms, leaning against the frame and frowning.

"I don't recall us ever betting on those. I don't recall you winning any of them, either."

"But you did torture me with them, all the same," she countered, her sweet smile evaporating into a look of annoyance. "I suppose you _could_  think of this as me asking a favour of you…"

"But you don't want to, right?" Sabine hummed thoughtfully. "Alright, I'll bite. What kind of payment were you thinking of for this 'debt'…?"

"I wouldn't say no to a haircut if you've got the… time." She trailed off as Sabine's eyes widened, nostrils flaring before she fled from the doorway. The Mirialan watched as she retreated into her room, silently wondering if maybe she had accidentally insulted generations of Mandalore. She frowned and sniffed, turning away from the door before Sabine returned with a pair of scissors in her hand.

"I won't lie," the younger woman said. "I have been waiting for this chance." The Seventh eyed the gleaming cutters, glancing back at Wren's anxious face.

"I said hair. Not  _throat_."

Sabine grinned wickedly and clicked the scissors open and closed.

* * *

 

Ezra ducked out of his shared room with Zeb howling in laughter after him, making every joke about marriage and relationships as he went. The Jedi rolled his eyes, wiping the dust off a blast shield and wondering why Kanan and Hera weren't getting the same treatment.

"Whatever," he murmured, lifting the polarised shade up and peeking through it. It may look a little odd to be walking around wearing an old flight visor, but the worst his 'friend' would suffer is a strange look now and again. Otherwise, there was no denying it – her Sith eyes were somewhat intimidating, even if she probably liked it that way.

Now – just where was she, anyway? Ezra closed his eyes and expanded his awareness, feeling through the Ghost until he found… Sabine? That wasn't right, surely. But he thought it best to check, making his way to the artist's door and knocking gently.

The portal cracked open revealing Sabine with a look of annoyance, narrowing her eyes and waving a pair of scissors like they were a wand.

"I hope you know you're interrupting some critical work here, Ezra," she said, leaving him taken aback.

"Sorry about that – I'm just looking for, well…" When  _was_  she going to hurry and pick a name she liked, anyway?

"Yes, yes, your girlfriend is here," she said, noticing the thick shade he was clutching. She snatched it as he was busy back peddling.

"What? No, she's not my – "

"You sure you want to finish that sentence?" The voice came from within Sabine's sanctum, floating somewhere between bemused and annoyed, and he promptly shut his mouth.

"Tell your boyfriend to go be busy," Sabine turned and sniped towards the unseen Seventh, who scoffed.

"Who said he's my boyfriend? I could do better, you know," the Mirialan replied casually, earning an affronted look from the scruffy Jedi outside.

"Hey, what's that mean – "

" _Shab!_ " Sabine cursed. "You two are made for each other. And  _this_  will have to be modified." She looked down at the severed piece of helmet like it were something horrid, turning it over and nodding to herself with a sigh. Some painting and trimming, at the very least… She gave Ezra a stern look before stepping back into her room.

"Go and find a hood, Ezra," she said, earning a frown of confusion.

"A hood?"

"Like the one she used to have," she pressed. "Go. Shoo. Before someone else finds one and she decides to make  _them_  her not-boyfriend."

She stepped back and the door sealed shut, leaving one Ezra Bridger to scrub his face and groan.

' _Were all women like this_?' he thought.

* * *

 

The  _Ghost_ slipped into the Naboo system with relative comfort. Hera had almost expected to be greeted by an Imperial transmission as they fell out of hyperspace, but she was welcomed by fixed stars and the bright sphere of the planet instead. It was, as Ezra had put it, rather pretty for a mid-rim world. In the same breath, it offered very little strategic value to the Empire. It lacked raw materials that other systems had, and with how withdrawn the people had become, even tourism was somewhat lacking.

It made their plan both more accessible and more difficult at the same time. Getting to Theed may not prove too much of a challenge, but staying undercover and inconspicuous may prove challenging for their group. Especially with so many aliens on a mostly-human world…

"While we're gone, I'll need you to run relatively quiet, Chop," she told the droid, powering down most of the freighter's systems. "Keep the coms up and running, but life support and sublight can be dialled back. Don't be afraid to drift the ship if you think there's a risk of Imperial activity, alright?" The Twi'lek unfastened her flight harness, patting the boxy astromech as it huffed and snapped off a half-hearted salute.

By the time she had crawled inside the  _Phantom II_ and closed the hatch, Hera wondered if perhaps they were taking on board more risk than the plan asked for. Kanan and Ezra sat side by side on a pair of folded down seats, maybe the least obvious of them all. At least compared to a tall, furry and rarely seen Lasat. Followed by the ever-present (and colourful) Mandalore armour that Sabine wore.

She had to stop herself from doing a double take towards their latest crew member, who had managed to tuck her extra-slim frame into a rumble seat opposite Ezra, once more drowning in the beaten-up jacket he used to wear. But instead of the messy hair that had been sticking out over her ears, Hera was surprised to find a tight hood hugging her skull. And… was that an old pilot's shade she was wearing? Except one that had been stripped back, shaped and wearing a colourful Wren-styled paint job around the edges.

"I see you've both been busy," she finally hummed at the two women. The former Inquisitor smirked behind the shade while Sabine puffed her chest out.

"That's some of my best work, thank you, Hera," she defended.

"Oh, I can tell," the pilot urged, turning away and climbing into the cockpit of the shuttle. "Just  _perfect_  for stealthy infiltrations." She took control of the yokes and eased the  _Phantom II_ out of the dock, turning the craft towards Naboo's surface and speeding forward.

"Having second thoughts?" Kanan murmured, leaning over her shoulder. She sighed. She couldn't  _help_  but have some reservations about the whole ordeal.

"Don't worry," he said, patting her shoulder. "I'm sure Chopper and the  _Ghost_  will be fine."

"That's the least of my worries," she said but grinned just a little at Kanan's attempt at humour. She plotted a course towards the capital of Theed and hit the engines, feeling the craft picking up speed as it hurtled towards Naboo's surface.

* * *

 

He lurched forward in his seat, coughing and cursing everything anew. The power plant nestled below the Royal Palace's foundations made a poor hideaway. The constant flux of energy pylons made the catwalks and railings thrum with power. Vibrations would course up his legs and hands as he moved, irritating every old war wound and leaving a ringing in his ears.

He checked the power readings once again, making sure any adjustments he had made wouldn't trigger any curious technicians to come and investigate. He had to keep hidden for now. He was still too far away from what he needed to achieve, and no good would come from having anyone go missing near his work. It would only bring more nuisances and interference down on top of him.

He sat back down on the small bunk he had made, once again feeling vibrations from industrial batteries coursing up through the frame and setting his teeth on edge. He closed his eyes, falling into an old meditative technique to steady his breathing. To try and block out the static of crackling electricity overhead and the hums of shields shaking off excess power.

And then he focused on his  _hate_ , finding it infinitely more useful for dulling the pains he felt. To help him ignore the stale air that lay in his lungs like lead, or the buzzing in his mind from staying underground too long. Hate that was strong enough to carry him through until everything was perfect.

He was annoyed by a light flickering nearby, opening his eyes to glare at the offending beacon. But he was soon up again, trying to suppress a sticky cough as he made his way to the monitors he had used to splice into Naboo's network. He leaned closer, eyes narrowing as he tried to make out the Sheathipede shuttle that had nestled down in a discreet docking bay, powered down and covered with a tarp. Fingers blindly groped at the keys, not daring to look away as the feed began to cycle through various cameras. Streets. A garden. Buildings in darkness. A cantina opened late.

He drew in another heavy breath as he finally saw familiar silhouettes in the streets, splitting off and going in different directions. They looked general enough – humanoid in shape. But there was no mistaking the lurch of the Lasat as it ambled towards a residential district, or the twin lekku of the Twi'lek, as she and her Jedi companion ducked inside of an inn.

"Hello again," he rasped, watching the Mandalorian slipping down an alleyway, leaving the final pair to venture off-screen. "My dear, old friends…"

* * *

 

The Seventh slipped into the darkened inn room, silently locking the door behind her. For the first time in  _weeks_ , she was free to enjoy some small luxuries in life. The Mirialan grinned to herself, letting her baggy jacket drop to the floor, followed by the gaudily painted shade that Wren had modified. She didn't hesitate to lie back across the rented bed and stretch out, purring at finally having some decent bedding underneath her again.

She twisted and rolled, bringing her legs up to toe off her boots and arch into the mattress. Lithe fingers peeled the hood away from her head, and she shook out her freshly cut, pixie-length hair. Neat and tidy and how she liked it, even if she had to repeat herself time and again that she didn't want some tacky colour spread through it like Wren kept offering to do.

Now, _this_ was the type of mission she could see herself signing up for. Wasn't that her plan from the very beginning? To find a beautiful, warm resort world and hang a Do Not Disturb sign on the door of a rented room for a few days. Even if this little adventure would be shorter and involve some playful espionage, it was still worth it. Especially if it meant misbehaving on Palpatine's homeworld – something that had become more appealing as she thought it through.

But before all that, she had come close to  _killing_ for a good, hot shower over the last week. The Mirialan hopped off the bed and peeled her clothes off, quietly padding towards the refresher. She paused just long enough to look in a full-length mirror, admiring her fresh hairstyle once again and turning around. She was starting to look a little more like her old self, she thought. Less tired. Less pale. More like the Inquisitor she used to see whenever she looked in the mirror years ago – more focused and prepared. Maybe, she thought, this was the best she had looked since that evening so long ago, where her little plan to seduce Ezra Bridger had backfired so magnificently.

"Hello, stranger," she cooed at her naked reflection, before turning on her heel and slipping inside the refresher. A wall of steam welcomed her, along with the sound of running water. She grinned to herself, wordlessly opening the shower stall and stepping inside.

"Don't mind me," she said over the noise, causing Ezra to jump back immediately. He sputtered as he tried to wash soap suds off his face, but the Seventh advanced and helped herself to the steamy torrent. The Mirialan sighed as warm water fell over her slim frame, watching with amusement as Bridger tried to make sense of what was going on around him. The Jedi opened his mouth and closed it, trying half a dozen times to talk and cutting himself short each time. Each attempt to learn how she got into his inn room, then into his shower, and just what she was doing there made her grin wider.

"Are you saying you want me to go?" she teased, crossing her arms over her bare breasts and watching him with hooded eyes. He opened his mouth and closed it again, struggling between telling her to stay and offering to leave her in privacy. All the while she watched him with golden eyes, noting how the water made his bronzed skin gleam and accentuated various scars. Paying attention to the details of his face, watching him grow more distracted and glassy as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other. Stepping closer until her foot glanced his. Moving her arm until she knew the peak of her puffy nipple was exposed and feeling his gaze fall on her chest.

The Seventh finally felt victorious. After all that had happened and all that she had lost and began to gain once more, she was right back where she started. In a cosy space, feeling powerful as she began to seduce her longest adversary and her now-favourite lover.

"Tonight,  _I_ am the master, and _you_  are the apprentice," she said, moving closer until she backed him into the corner of the stall. He said nothing, watching with a flush staining his cheeks as she reached out and took him in her hand. She felt him harden in her grip and she bit her lip, giving him a slow pump and watching him grunt and sigh for her. Ezra's thighs parted and she brushed her thumb across the swollen head, moving closer until her modest breasts flattened against his chest. She lifted a long, tapered leg and slid it along his calf. Immediately she felt his length twitch in her palm, followed by a full hand sweeping along her thigh and over her backside.

Powerful? She felt  _invincible_.

"Lesson one," she purred, reaching up and grabbing the back of his hair. Her hand began a slow decent, and she drank in every flicker of emotion across his face. "Stamina," she finished, stretching up on her toes and claiming his mouth for herself.


	10. Rebel Without a Cause

_It goes without saying that I do not profit from this work, nor do I own the characters used within (something which I'm sure we're all grateful for.)_

_**Seduced By The Light** _

_**10\. Rebel Without a Cause** _

* * *

"What do you see?"

Hera peeked around the corner and frowned. In a neat courtyard at dawn, a pair of young women and a lone guard gathered together, sitting beneath the shade of a copse of trees.

"Some girls," Hera murmured with a frown. "They look like handmaidens if I had to guess."

"It's possible Her Highness doesn't trust invitations from strangers," the blind Jedi hummed while stroking his beard.

"Well, she  _is_  the Queen of the planet. It's possible she can't sneak out without being noticed. Perhaps she's trusting us to talk through intermediaries?"

"That could take a while."

"On the contrary…" Hera and Kanan both were interrupted as another voice, soft and feminine, echoed from the shadows of a nearby archway. Another woman, dressed in the same flowing robes as the other two, stepped forward and smiled demurely. "I think you'll find this to be much more direct. But I hope you can forgive my trespass, friends."

Hera stepped away from the entrance of the courtyard, studying the newcomer while her brow furrowed. "Are you going to take us to meet the Queen?" she asked.

"Quite unnecessary," she answered. She stepped closer, walking with a regal grace as her voice lowered in equal measures. "The office of Her Highness is heavily monitored, General Syndulla. But if you were to sneak in, you would find only the Queen's dear friend sitting on the throne. A bodyguard, if you will."

"Right," Kanan mused. "She's switched places with a handmaiden. Which would likely make you –" The young maiden offered a polite nod of her head.

"I would ask you to follow me somewhere more… discrete. It's been many years since Theed has truly felt secure, I'm afraid." Without waiting for any confirmation, she turned and strode back into the dark passage, her grace and baring betraying the simple garb she wore as a disguise.

"Well, this is promising," Hera whispered, taking Kanan's hand in her own as they started off after the Queen. "Think the kids are having luck, too?"

"I'm sure they're already hard at work," Kanan said. "Don't worry – they'll stick to the plan."

* * *

The Seventh squeezed her golden eyes shut as light streamed in through the window, stirring her awake. She grunted and rolled over, blocking out the morning sun as best she could. Part of her wanted to just reach out with the Dark Side and swat the blasted daylight away for daring to interrupt her sleep. But, of course, she  _couldn't_.

The Mirialan arched beneath the sheets, humming as her naked body stretched with satisfaction. After the night before, it was probably just as well she couldn't reach out and connect with the Force anymore. She was sure the inn room would be thoroughly trashed if she could. She could still remember clawing at the pillow in desperation as her third orgasm crashed over her. It must have been some fantastic quality to not end up as a pile of feathers and fabric over the floor.

Stamina training, indeed.

She rolled over and stretched out, fully expecting to drape herself over one Ezra Bridger. Her longtime enemy turned familiar lover. And, privately, her "dear apprentice" after last night. It had only taken  _her years_ , but she finally achieved her goal of pinning him down and making him her willing servant. Except naked. And, rather than Force techniques, she had moaned for him to keep going until her voice was raw.

It still counted, as far as she was concerned. Besides: seeing as he all but  _begged_  her to surrender and defect, a little sexual role play was the  _least_  he could do. She told him so, warning him to expect more of it in the future.

"Morning, apprentice," the Seventh purred playfully. She was in a good mood. Maybe for the first time since their initial tryst in a crashed pod, so long ago. But while she was planning to trace random marks across Ezra's broad, tanned chest, only the empty bed greeted her. Deft fingers slid up and down, expecting to feel  _some_  trace of him. A limb, at least. She sat up, frowning when she realised that sure enough – she was all alone in bed.

"Morning," she heard him hum across the room, and her blazing Sith eyes narrowed as she found him sitting on the floor, hands together in a meditative stance.

"Rather rude to let me wake up alone, you know," she murmured. Force knew she could get used to being a Rebel operative if it meant having more evenings like that to look forward to.

"You're never alone, you know." Ezra Bridger's hair was messier than usual, and the Mirialan remembered pulling at it while in the throes of passion. She sat up and peered over, grinning wickedly as she saw that  _yes_  – she also marked her territory with a rather prominent hickey, too.

"What a very  _Jedi_  thing to say," she mused, sliding out of bed and padding naked towards her younger… partner? Boyfriend? She sat down beside him, hugging her pale legs and admiring his features as she decided that calling him 'hers' was good enough for now. Why bother with labels when she still couldn't decide on a blasted name for herself? "How about that – of all the men in the galaxy, I find myself entangled with a Jedi."

"I don't remember you complaining last night."

"I didn't have the energy to – you kriffed it all out of me," she countered with a leer. Ezra smiled, his eyes still shut, but she wouldn't be surprised if he could feel her amusement. The banter they shared over their many duels was proof enough that he could read her, even with her old blast shield up.

Maybe all that time they really were just weird friends…

"Why don't you join me?" he suggested, breaking her concentration. The Seventh shrugged her bare shoulders, leaning back against the bed.

"What for?" she asked. "My connection is gone. I'm not even sure I'm Force Sensitive, anymore."

"I don't believe it," Ezra said, lowering his hands and surfacing from his meditation. A moment later he was leaning beside her like they were the oldest of friends. And she couldn't help but notice that even while she sat there, completely exposed, his azure eyes stayed looking at her face.

She told herself that he'd already seen it all, by now. Force, she was pretty sure he left a few marks on her too before they both passed out. But still. It was rather cute.

"So. You seem to think that sitting here and humming will fix my little problem?" the Seventh asked. The tone of her voice made it entirely clear what she thought of that little suggestion.

"I think you're having trouble with the Dark Side. But a person who's sensitive doesn't just lose that. Maybe… well, have you thought about trying the other way?"

The Seventh stared at him, arching an elegant eyebrow and clicking her tongue.

"So. You seem to think that I ought to try things the  _Jedi_ way?"

"Why not?"

She shook her heard. That honesty of his was as endearing as it was troublesome. And something she was going to have to correct before it dragged her into another jail of some kind.

As far as she was concerned, she was just as stuck with him as he was with her. Three climaxes in a row were more than enough to make her feel possessive of him.

"My dear, sweet,  _silly_  Ezra," she cooed, favouring him with a knowing look. "Allow me to be clear, now. I cannot, and  _will not_ , ever be a Jedi. Understand?" He looked as if he wanted to say something, but the piercing look she gave him made him reconsider.

"Alright," he nodded, untucking his legs. She nodded, pleased that he was getting the message in one go. She appreciated it, no less. Not that she'd ever  _say that_.

"Now then." The Mirialan stood up and stretched, posing with one of her shapely legs bent and her bare backside wiggling beside him. "I'm going to enjoy another hot shower. If you're done chanting, I'll let you wash my back." She took a few slow, graceful steps towards the refresher, before peeking back over her shoulder and winking one of her crisp, Sith eyes. "And then you can wash my front."

She caught sight of him jumping up and disrobing in the mirror before she stepped into the shower, and she smirked in private. Why bother with Jedi techniques? After all – she was already able to do that Mind Trick of theirs on the one person she felt was interesting enough to play with, and she didn't have to wave her hand about, either. Just other parts of her body.

* * *

"Well, now." Zeb crossed his furry arms over his chest, directing a rather smug look at the discreet pair crossing the street. They blended in well, he noted. Ezra dressed down in some everyday attire he'd seen the natives wearing, but his little Inquisitor girlfriend turned heads as she strode about in that baggy jacket, hood and blast goggles. Though perhaps not as many looks as she  _would_  get, had she decided to swan about with those angry eyes of hers.

And while the whole idea was to blend in and look inconspicuous, it was just too tempting not to rub Ezra's face in it a bit.

"You two are lookin' awful sneaky. And are you only  _just_  getting up? You wouldn't be shirking the mission to play house, would you?" The Lasat grinned mischievously as the Jedi rolled his eyes. Ezra could be rambunctious at times, but he always kept professional where it mattered. His new "reformed companion" however didn't seem concerned. The Mirialan lowered her shade, just enough to allow her golden eyes to peer up at Garazeb.

"Who's playing?" she asked coolly before breezing past, across the street to where Sabine was sipping from a takeaway cup of caf.

"So," Zeb hummed, watching the agent walk away with a cat-like gait. A lavender, furry elbow met with Ezra's ribs. "When's the wedding?"

"Remind me why you're harassing me and not Kanan and Hera," he grumbled.

"Because you're still the kid,  _kid_ ," the Lasat rumbled, good-naturedly. Unshaven, grumbling and craving a cup of caf, Ezra allowed himself to be ushed across the street towards the girls, feeling anything  _but_  a kid. Especially not after the most sinful shower he'd ever had in his life.

He shook his head, painfully aware that he was right back to where he was weeks ago. Walking around with his mind far away, thinking about how passionately the Seventh Sister had clung to him in their little shelter. How the woman who had made a career out of chasing and antagonising him had guided him inside her with such enthusiasm. And, he wondered, what would happen when they met again after sharing something so private and intimate. Would they be right back to where they were before, trading blows and insults? Would things be different? He hoped they were.

Now, weeks later, it was funny just how much things had stayed the same between them. Spectre Seven didn't need her lightsaber or rank or Empire to clash with Ezra Bridger. After so many years, they all just seemed like convenient excuses. Strip them away and at her heart, she was still every bit as coy and attention-seeking as she had always been. The type who said and did as she wanted while grinning mischievously. Who still liked to whisper about how grand things could be if he just allowed her to take charge.

Well, she finally got that little wish last night. He would have made some analogy of how it's easier to catch Lothcat with honey instead of vinegar, but all his wisdom flew out the door when she bit her lip and growled that he belonged to her. And for the first time in all their years of sparring, he was perfectly happy to go along with it.

Ezra forced himself not to think about all that just now, though. They were on a mission, after all. He needed to focus on the here and now. And probably not the shapely, lithe Mirialan who had perched on his chest and pulled her hands through his hair, teaching him exactly how to lick her glossy flesh –

 _Force_ , he needed a caf, already. Either that or a smack to the face. Sneaking around Naboo's capital would be smoother if he didn't need to worry about hiding an erection. "What's the plan?" he asked when they joined Sabine and…

He needed a drink. And  _she_  needed to pick a name, already.

Without a word, the Mirialan handed him a cup of takeaway caffeine which Ezra gratefully accepted. If he didn't know better, he suspected that she really was able to still connect to the Force. At least that would explain how easy it was for her to be able to peer into his mind so clearly.

As if further reading his thoughts, the Seventh gave him a knowing smirk. He could already imagine her Sith eyes were glinting behind the polarised visor.

"Pretty blush," she commented. "Thoughts elsewhere, perhaps…?" Her teeth sunk into the pillow of her dark lip, and Ezra suppressed the sudden urge to lean down and kiss them. Something that felt as exciting and arousing then as it did all those weeks ago as she pinned him in their craft.

"Keep it in your pants, you two," Sabine said with a roll of her eyes. The spell over his mind broke, and Ezra blinked, suddenly thankful to his Mandalorian comrade.

Wasn't there a reason the Jedi frowned on making such grand attachments? That they would inevitably lead to ruin? To the Dark Side? And here he was, blushing like a schoolboy over a former  _Dark Side_   _user_. He stood a little straighter, determined to ask Kanan later just how he managed to stay so calm with Hera around.

"You and Zeb are going to make your way around the East promenade and keep an eye out for anything suspicious," Sabine said with a voice of authority. "Well, more suspicious than  _us_ , anyway. Spectre Seven and I will cruise the West. The Imperial presence is low here, but that doesn't mean the people don't feel it. It will be good to get a feel for the situation."

"Right," Ezra nodded. He would bet good credits that he and his new partner were being split up just to keep their minds on the job. "Do we have a meeting time, yet?"

"Not yet. Keep your communicators handy if you find anything, alright? Imperial agents are probably used to coming and going without anyone giving them grief, so it shouldn't be too hard to spot anyone marching around."

"C'mon, time's wasting," Zeb suddenly grumbled, grabbing Ezra by the shoulder and steering him around. "I haven't had breakfast yet, and I'm in the mood for bucketheads."

The girls watched the boys depart before the Mirialan gave Sabine a coy smile. "I'm new to this Rebel stuff. Be gentle?" Sabine rolled her eyes.

"I liked you better when you were moody and in a cage," she muttered. "Come on. This will be easy. We're going to tackle the other side of Hera's plan – find people in distress and offer a hand. Sometimes it's more effective than outright recruiting."

"You think there's going to be anything worthwhile in a quiet city like this one?" The Seventh wasn't so easily convinced.

"I'd say the odds are as good as an ex-Inquisitor joining up because her younger boyfriend said 'please,'" Sabine answered, not looking back. Her companion froze and blinked, unseen behind her food and shade.

"He  _told_  you that?"

"Nope – you just did." She chuckled as the Mirialan re-evaluated the Mandalorian. She was diplomatic and had evident leadership skills, but could be so sneaky when she wanted to be.

She liked her. It made her glad she was with Syndulla's little band of troublemakers.

* * *

"I thank you once again for agreeing to meet with us." Hera's lekku bobbed as she looked around the spacious interior, decked out in Naboo's traditional art style. The furnishings alone had a look of royal opulence to them, but dotted here and there she spied several security measures. Sensors that made a stark contrast to the wood and details. The occasional private camera that clashed with the plants that climbed up from hanging baskets. She even spotted several seams in the wall, where no doubt the panels slid back to reveal… well, who knew what.

Everywhere a reminder of the times they lived in.

"Perfectly fine, General Syndulla. Your reputation precedes you, as do your allies. I apologise for the deception with bringing you here, but the shadow of the Empire has made Naboo very… cautious." The young Queen, having been elected two years prior, folded her hands and waited for her visitors to sit. Hera thought that she seemed small compared to the scalloped throne and high chamber ceiling above them.

"We appreciate the risk you've taken," Kanan said, and the queen smiled and nodded.

"One does not turn down a chance to meet with a Jedi Knight," she hummed. "But of that, I will say no more. Now please – tell me what Naboo can do for you."

"We were hoping, Your Highness, that there was something we could do for you," Kanan offered in return. "We understand that as the Emperor's homeworld, your people may be considered unwilling hosts to Imperial agents. Or even military projects, as we've been lead to believe. Now, we wouldn't ask you to invite suspicion upon you by allowing us a chance to sabotage them, but knowing what we could be facing in the near future could mean a world of difference." The blind Jedi hadn't noticed when the Queen frowned partway through his pitch.

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Master Jedi," she said serenely. "While it is true that the Naboo are often forced to accommodate Palpatine's guests, I'm afraid I do not know these 'projects' that you mention." It was Kanan's turn to frown, his brow furrowing behind his blast shield as he considered it. "Perhaps you are mistaken?"

"We intercepted an Imperial Courier," Hera offered. "During interrogation, they confessed they came from  _here_. From Theed. And that there was, in all likelihood, something in development beneath the city."

"This is troubling news indeed, then." The Queen clasped her hands, looking far more regal than the handmaiden she was disguised as presently. "I'm afraid that I am still quite uncertain of any such developments occurring on either Naboo or beneath Theed, General. If your information is accurate, then – " A low beep began emitting from Hera's belt, and she smiled with embarrassment as she apologised and stood up.

"I'm sorry," she urged again, removing her communicator. "I told my crew only to call in emergencies…"

"Perfectly understandable," the queen said. "You may talk with confidence here, General." Hera smiled tightly and flicked her communicator on. Immediately a chorus of tinny warbles and beeps filtered through the air, and she frowned.

"Chop? Chopper, slow… slow down! What do you mean recalled?" Her mouth became a tense line as she tried to understand half of the flustered chimes she heard in droidspeak.

"Our astromech," Kanan offered apologetically behind her. "He's… unique."

"You're majesty," Hera said, returning to the table with her communicator clutched tightly in her hand. She offered a stiff bow. "I'm afraid we must depart at once, but I hope we can continue our meeting one day soon. I thank you kindly for your hospitality, and I hope we haven't wasted your time here, today. Spectre One? We have to  _go_." Kanan cleared his throat and stood, moving to catch up to her as she hurried towards the exit.

"Hey, what's going on? We're being kinda  _rude_  here."

"Our Courier hung himself," she said tersely. "And while we were gone, new information has come in. The council are discussing plans to attack a shielded Imperial storage facility on Scarif."

"So… you think we were sent here on a wild bantha chase?"

"That, or someone tried to keep us away. And I don't like it one bit."

* * *

The Seventh – or Spectre Seven, as her new General had dubbed her – had quickly slipped back into her indifferent mood from before. She was freely walking around the Emperor's homeworld and enjoying it. Especially since she was probably due for execution a few days previously. She could get used to being in a rebellion.

But as far as  _Alliance_  work went, she couldn't care less. Wren had already stopped to play bleeding-heart to a few people already, helping out with carrying things and dropping credits in tip jars. Winning people over, she had called it. And while she understood it was best to keep a low profile, the Mirialan was disappointed to think that the Mandalorian didn't demand a trial by combat or something equally brutal.

"You're destroying a lot of myths about your people," she had remarked, earning a smirk from the younger woman.

"Oh? Well, it's time for you to prove you've got what it takes. See that stall over yonder?" The Seventh turned and followed where Sabine pointed, her brow arching behind her visor at what had to be the saddest shopfront on the strip. "Go and see what you can do to help."

"Please tell me that means putting it out of its misery," she remarked blithely.

"Go on. Just think of  _Ezra_ , and I'm sure it will be fine."

Right. Ezra. He-who-was-responsible for her sorry lot in life. But the Mirialan knew she had picked the only decent option available to her. Running from the Empire on the Outer Rim would probably be infinitely worse than throwing in with Mon Mothra's rebels. Besides – she still had the added perk of trapping her pet Bridger in a locked room, now.

Force forbid that she prove Wren right and that she did just enjoy thinking of Ezra.

"Good morning," she said tensely, trying to force a smile that wasn't quite there. The storekeeper looked up from his sales logs and glanced at her before staring. She wondered what the odds were that her face was smiling gorgeously from a wanted poster nearby. Would this pudgy Naboo clerk recognise her from any other Mirialan if so? Would she have to silence him after all? And just how much attention would  _that_  make if she did?

She missed her lightsaber, even if it was just as likely to sever her limbs now that her control had evaporated.

"Not sure what I can do for you," the storekeeper hummed, turning back to his inventory. The Seventh didn't even realise that she had been balling her fists at her side.

"Actually," she swallowed. "I was wondering if, that is to say…" ' _Blast and kriff this nonsense'_ , she thought sourly. "Is there anything I could do to help you out," she finished lamely, sounding for all the world as half-hearted as she felt.

"Not unless you want to make a stormtrooper angry," the balding clerk grumbled, rubbing his silvery moustache as he frowned over his records. The Seventh felt her mood marginally improve.

"Tell me more," she asked, suddenly interested.

"Every week, one of those bucketheads comes along and takes a 'percentage' of my wares for protecting my store. I suppose I'm just lucky that he leaves me enough to sell."

"That's extortion," she thought aloud, frowning. But mostly she couldn't escape the feeling that she herself had done something similar time and again through her career. But that was different. She wasn't some slug of a Stormtrooper who fancied themselves a kingpin. She was an Inquisitor – her requisitions were important. So she could pursue Jarrus and Bridger and once again trade blows and coax him into joining her side and –

"He's taking wares," the shopkeeper grumbled, and she was pleased for the interruption. Self-awareness was still a Jedi trait, as far as she was concerned. "Not credits. So as far as the security's concerned, it's no big deal. Never mind that I  _sell_  my products to  _make_  credits…"

"So why don't you  _stop him_?" The Seventh felt her ire suddenly rising. She was annoyed that this little man was forcing her to confront her own actions. But most of all, she had no time for his tiny pity party.

She was sure there was  _some_  hypocrisy there, left over from languishing in a detention block until Ezra broke them both out. But she was already dealing with enough annoying self-examination.

"You been living under a rock?" the storekeeper asked suddenly. He narrowed his eyes and stared up at the alien woman, whose face was mostly covered by some gaudy blast shield that must be in fashion with kids these days. "If I pick a fight with an Imperial Stormtrooper, I can say goodbye to my licence, my store, and my business. My entire livelihood."

"Better to be a free man than live under tyranny," she remarked, realising immediately that  _this_  was how irony tasted. It left her feeling bitter and short-tempered, and perhaps it was a good thing that she could no longer lift annoying people up with her mind.

"You're a loner, aren't you?" he asked. But it wasn't kindly. It was an accusation, and she responded to it.

"Perhaps."

"Figures. I've got family to support. And endanger, if I upset this mongrel Imperial. That's how they get you – they come after everything and everyone you have just to hurt you. Letting this thug steal from me is the only way I can protect them." He turned away, focusing back on his bookkeeping with a dismissive flick of his hand. "I don't expect you to understand. You couldn't unless you had someone else to worry about in your life. Go away."

The Seventh felt her fists balling at her side, but now she felt distinctly called out. Attacked, even. But what did he know, anyway? Some cynical little old man knew nothing of her. Nor where she came from and what she was capable of. She could look after herself.

And she wasn't kriffing alone, either.

She strode off, away from her first "Rebel test" and Wren and everything that annoyed her. Namely,  _everything_. Instead, she slipped through the crowd and doubled back, striding off in the direction where Ezra and the Lasat had wandered.

She  _wasn't_  alone, she told herself again. Not anymore.

* * *

Ezra moved further away from where he agreed to meet with Zeb. His legs carried him on their own accord as though something was pulling him forwards. He climbed the lichen-covered steps down into the depths of a monstrous building until he came out into a large, spacious chamber. A hanger, he quickly recognised. The assortment of droid scaffolds, fighter ladders and tools were reminiscent of something from the rebel fleet. But the hangar door at the end was sealed tight, and almost all of the bays were empty.

He remembered what Hera said about the entire planet being demilitarised, and imagined that dismantling the air support would have been one of the first steps the Empire had taken when annexing Naboo. It was a shame. To hear Hera talk of their fleet on the way down made him wish there was a fighter or two to admire. She had even described them as missiles made of bright yellow and reflecting durasteel, which careened through the air effortlessly.

He shook his head, realising that he was standing there and romanticising over… starfighters? That wasn't like him.

Across the streets and plazas, Hera spoke tensely into her communicator. "Everyone, head back to the  _Phantom II_  now, we're leaving. We're needed back at base, as soon as possible. I want everyone to drop what you're doing and make your way back immediately."

"Should we worry about splitting up?" Kanan asked, following alongside her as she marched with a stiff gait.

"I don't see the point," she huffed. "I'm starting to think this entire excursion was a cover. What are the odds that something sinister is hiding here, where even the Queen doesn't know about it?"

"Well…" The blind Jedi stroked his scruffy chin in thought. "Now that you've said that? Probably pretty high."

Ezra looked around at the spacious garage, frowning. There was  _something_  there. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Something… cold?

"Hey, stranger."

He yelped a frightened noise that seemed to echo in the cavernous expanse of the empty hanger. Suddenly appearing beside him, the Seventh crossed her eyes and favoured him with a smug smirk.

"Ah, how long I've waited to make you squeal for me," she hummed, earning a hard glare from her younger partner.

"Very funny," he muttered, wondering how he hadn't sensed her approaching. Was he really so lost in his own thoughts not to notice? "How did you know where to find me, anyway? Did Zeb point this place out?"

"Can't say I've seen him," she shrugged, stepping around him. Her boots clicked against the durasteel as she looked about the empty fighter bays. "And… I don't know. I just came here. This was the first place I looked. But  _yes_ , I decided I'd rather spend my time with you than the others. You're free to feel flattered, you know." The Mirialan glanced over her shoulder and lowered her visor, winking a sparkling Sith eye at him. Ezra sniffed and shook his head.

"You make me feel so special," he remarked, putting his hands in the pockets of his new jacket and looking around them. Soon enough, he forgot about their little back-and-forth. He was too busy looking around, as though something was hovering just beyond reach. Something that was waiting to be discovered.

"Do you feel that?" he asked, walking towards one of the empty bays and frowning. Ezra scratched from his bearded chin to his scarred cheek, squinting.

"Feel what?" the Mirialan asked, coming to stand beside him.

"I don't know. It's so… chilly."

The floor beneath them opened up and swallowed both rebels, plunging them into darkness with a sudden shout before sealing back up, leaving no trace that either of them had ever been there.

Sabine and Zeb jogged around the sparse sheds and buildings towards the docking bay where the  _Phantom II_  sat, meeting an impatient Hera Syndulla as soon as they arrived.

"We're here," the Lasat grunted, stopping long enough to take a breath. "What's the emergency?"

"We're needed back home before the council makes some big choice," she said, nodding towards the open door of the shuttle. But not before scanning the entrance of the docking back and glaring. "And  _where_  are Spectre's Six and Seven?" she asked, crossing her arms and addressing her crew.

"You mean they're not here?"

"They were with you!"

"I don't know!" Zeb huffed, throwing a furry hand up. "Last I saw, Ezra was headin' off to explore some street. Figured he got your call and headed back without waiting."

"And our recruit just vanished," Sabine supplied. "I asked her to go talk to some shopkeeper. When I checked, she was long gone."

"Fantastic," Hera seethed, bringing her communicator back up. "Spectre Six and Seven? Do you copy?" She flicked off the transmit button, receiving static as an answer. "Ezra? Spectre Seven? Are you there?" More static responded, and she frowned harder.

"Do you think they're in trouble?" Sabine asked. Zeb chuckled.

"Sure," he hummed. "She's probably tied him up somewhere." He climbed into the shuttle as Sabine rolled her eyes.

"They  _better_  be in trouble," Hera growled. If she thought for one second they had snuck off to have sex, then there'd be hell to pay. But immediately she wondered if perhaps Ezra  _was_  in danger, and the urge to run back into the heart of Theed swelled inside of her.

"Hey," Kanan said, appearing at her side a moment later, sensing the sudden shift in her mood. "I'm sure they're just lost. As you said, what are the odds anything bad is happening here?" Hera smiled and nodded, even if she wasn't entirely convinced.

"Spectre Six and Seven," she announced, once again bringing the communicator up. "We've had to make an emergency return, but we  _will_  be back as soon as possible. Be ready and waiting by the time we are." The Twi'lek looked back over at the entrance, half-expecting to see Ezra and his companion suddenly appear and wave at them not to leave just yet. But nobody came, and she frowned.

"If I find out they skipped off to screw around," she warned, climbing into the shuttle. She let the threat hang as Kanan shook his head.

"C'mon Hera. They're probably just… well, not doing  _that_." He hoped they weren't. Otherwise, none of them would hear the end of it. Particularly Kanan. The  _Phantom II_  sealed and lifted off, peeling into the skies of Naboo and towards the orbiting  _Ghost_.

Beneath Theed's hanger, the Seventh coughed and forced herself to sit up, hissing as she felt a sharp pain shoot up through her leg. She looked around, finding a collection of catwalks and generators, all bathed in a sickly blue light of energy conductors. "What did you push?" she muttered, looking back to where Ezra struggled to lift himself from the ground. The younger Jedi had landed just as severely it seemed, and he fought to get up.

"I did  _no_   _such thing_ ," he defended with a strained voice. Gingerly, the Seventh made her way over to him and took hold of his arm, helping to hoist him up onto his feet once again.

"That was me," came a voice behind them, velvety smooth and precise, despite the crackling dynamos around them. They both stopped, immediately recognising the familiar sound. Ezra frowned. But the Seventh tightened her grip on his arm, almost painfully so.

She turned and felt hatred clutch her core as an old Darth Maul appeared, walking carefully on droid legs and smiling benevolently towards them.

"Hello, again, my young apprentice," he seemed to purr.

* * *

_AN: Gone and had a re-read, lately? It may not be entirely obvious, but the previous nine chapters have all been given a clean edit to improve their quality. I honestly meant to finish this chapter some time ago, but between work, studies, private commissions and editing ebooks, things just had to keep being shifted to the back burner. But I'll try and get the final two chapters written and polished in a shorter time frame._


End file.
